Hidden
by bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica
Summary: Sixteen years after the dramatic events of Empire of Storms, a new generation of warriors and witches have emerged. Erawan and Maeve are in hiding, and Aelin Galathynius has been missing for a decade and a half. But there are new forces emerging on the horizon, and it's only a matter of time before Erawan-or an even deadlier enemy-comes to power. Next-generation.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is the kickoff of a next-generation _Throne of Glass_ fanfic that I'm writing. Set about 16 years (give or take) after the end of _Empire of Storms,_ this is essentially my way of dealing with the fifth book's DEVASTATING ending. I'm posting the prologue and chapter 1 at the same time, and after that, chapters will be posted as soon as I write them. Enjoy, and please review to let me know what you think!**

 **Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

PROLOGUE

Leta's fingers trembled as she eased open the door with a quiet, hushed _creak._

She froze, her heart thumping in her chest. But Mohana did not stir in her chair by the fireplace, only twitching briefly, the ancient witch's mouth dangling open in a silent snore. Leta crept through the room, slow and quiet. Only three more steps to the door… Two… One…

As her hand closed around the door handle, she paused, turning back. She knew this three-room cabin so well; knew every crack and crevice. She knew its battered rug and weathered table, the sooty fireplace and the bedroll where she slept. She knew Mohana, that old Ironteeth witch, with her rusted iron claws and teeth.

Leta released a breath. She knew it, but she wouldn't miss it. Not ever.

She twisted the knob and pushed the door open, shutting it quickly behind her. The night sky was just beginning to show hints of dawn at the horizon, violet leaching into the expanse of cobalt blue. The stars were beginning to go out, one-by-one, but Leta's eyes found the stag pattern in the stars. She couldn't remember where she'd first learned about him, from a book or from hearsay, but she kissed her fingers and held it up to the constellation, a silent nod of thanks.

She took one last look around her, soaking in the Cambrian Mountains. This deep in the Cambrians, there was no one around for miles; just the hares and the birds and the pine trees, all graced with fragile, white snow.

And then, with a deep breath, Leta took a step forward and _ran._

* * *

She had been planning this for months, and Leta prayed to the gods that they would not fail her now, not when they had failed her so many times already.

She had been so careful. Mohana noticed everything; catalogued every crumb. Leta had taken a bit of bread here, a bit of salted pork there. A handful of things that she had stashed in her leather pack, biding her time. Waiting.

It had all started when the traveling peddler passed through that spring. Seldom did anyone come through their deserted part of the mountains, and when they did, they usually came to sell trinkets and wares and stories of the outside world. The peddler had been selling books, to Leta's delight. Books and maps.

She had bought a map of Wendlyn, and, closeted away in her room, she had charted a path out of the Cambrians. Mohana's cabin was far from Varese, but not too far—maybe a three weeks' trek. Risky, but worth it.

Leta could not remember a time when she wasn't reading some book, whether fiction or nonfiction, about politics or magic. She knew about the outside world—a little of it, anyway. Mohana kept a trunk of books, and if she was crafty enough, she might be able to sneak one or two before setting it back.

Occasionally, she didn't put it back in time, and the Ironteeth witch would rake her claws over Leta's skin.

 _Fae demon. You think you can get away with this?_

Her lips flattened as she swept through the forest, branches slapping gently at her cheeks. She was a Fae, but she was no demon. She had taken care not to become one—only using her senses in self-defense, only using her little knowledge of magic to heal. Seldom did Leta touch her magic, the insistent beckoning from the water.

 _Come. Learn. Discover._

Mohana had been exiled by her own kind in Erilea as punishment for killing another witch, and she'd been in hiding in Wendlyn for centuries—centuries in isolation, centuries in which she had honed her anger. Centuries of rage she had unleashed upon Leta.

 _Orphan bitch. I remember when I found you on the side of the road—abandoned by your own people, no doubt. Your own kind. Fae demon._

No more. Leta would not become a demon, but she would not stand idly by, either.

This, she knew, was only the beginning. No more working as Mohana's slave. No more hiding and groveling on her knees. No more shame over her heritage. In Varese, things would be different. Things _had_ to be different.

The sun rose over the Cambrians, Leta leapt through the air soaring high and bright and bold.

And as she jumped, letting out a reckless whoop of freedom, the hood of her cowl slipped, illuminating her face, her wide smile and her eyes—bright turquoise, ringed with gold.

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you all liked it! Please review!**


	2. Pt 1 : Chapter 1

**A/N: So, like I said, here's the first chapter of _Hidden,_ posted with the prologue. I know the prologue was a little ambiguous, but it'll become less confusing in time. Now, on with the story!**

* * *

 **PART I: HIDE-AND-SEEK**

CHAPTER 1

It was the scream that woke Raiden.

He stirred, feeling the unfamiliar chafe of silk sheets against his bare legs. He blinked, squinting against the harsh morning sunlight filtering in through the windows. This wasn't his room—this was far too ornate and grand to be his room, expansive and outfitted with luxury as it was, from the canopy bed to the vanity laden with jewels and cosmetics.

Raiden froze. Noticed the head of ebony hair on his chest, the nearly-nude body sprawled out beside him.

Noticed the maid standing at the foot of the bed, her cheeks pale, a hand clapped to her mouth. She'd been the one to scream.

Raiden swore, and Syeira stirred beside him, her eyes opening, then widening with alarm. "Rai?" she croaked. "What is it? Why are you still here?"

"We've got company," he muttered, and she bolted upright. She was in nothing but her undergarments, Raiden himself in nothing at all. Syeira whitened, grabbing a sheet and pulling it to her chest.

The maid shrieked again.

Guards burst into the room, their hands on the hilt of their swords. They'd heard the maid's scream, it seemed. Raiden let out another torrent of curses as the guards stared at them, their mouths slack-jawed at the sight of him in the bed of the half-naked heir to the Crochan Crown.

Syeira just sat there, frozen. They were in so, so, _so_ much trouble.

And it was at that precise moment, when Raiden realized that they were in deep, deep shit, that the shit became even deeper.

Because it was at that precise moment that Syeira's father—Dorian Havilliard, King of Adarlan—burst into the room, hair rumpled from sleep, looking frantic.

Raiden cursed again. Beside him, Syeira looked as if she wanted to die.

But it only got worse from there, because right on Dorian's heels was Syeira's mother, Manon, the Crochan Queen.

He didn't swear that time. The look in Manon's sharp, golden eyes was enough to make him nearly piss himself. He knew that Syeira had those same eyes, but she'd never looked at him like that—like she wanted to _eat_ him.

For a long, endless moment, they all just stared at each other: guards, maid, king, queen, princess, and son of the Captain of the Guard. Raiden swallowed.

"Hey," he tried. "How… How's the weather today?"

Dorian stared at him. " _Get,"_ he ground out, " _the hell out of my daughter's room."_

Frost glazed the windows of Syeira's bedroom, and Raiden reflected that the shit, deep as it was, had just deepened another ten feet.

"All of you," Dorian roared, whirling to face the guards and the maid. " _Get out."_

They all filed out of the room, shooting Raiden and Syeira curious, half-horrified glances. Dorian and Manon stood there, the former fuming, the latter with her iron teeth snapped into place, her claws out and gleaming.

 _I am going to die._

"Why aren't you moving?" Syeira hissed.

He swallowed. "My—my trousers…" he began, inclining his head toward the vanity all the way on the other side of the room, where his pants had hastily been thrown over the mirror. If he wanted to get them, he'd have to walk right in-between the King of Adarlan and the Crochan Queen.

Manon tilted her head, turned around, and picked up his trousers, letting them dangle from her fingertips. "Come and get them, Raiden Westfall."

Raiden sent a pleading look to Syeira, but she didn't meet his eye. He slid off the bed uncomfortably, wrapping a blanket around his lower half. His undershorts… Had he even been _wearing_ undershorts the night before?

He pinned the blanket in place with one hand and took the trousers with the other. "Thanks," he said, offering the queen a wry smile.

She didn't match it. Her lips peeled back to expose her canines.

He attempted to put on his pants without letting the blanket fall, which almost—but not quite—worked. Raiden suppose that was another thing to put on his resume: _I once accidentally revealed half my ass to the King of Adarlan and the Crochan Queen._

"So," he said. "The weather. I guess it's not too good, huh?"

" _Rai,"_ Syeira hissed from across the room.

But Dorian didn't get a chance to throttle him, because at that moment, the door swung open with a _bang,_ and Raiden's father stormed into the room.

Oh, yes. The humiliation wouldn't be complete without a visit from Chaol Westfall.

Chaol was panting. "I heard a scream," he said. "Is everything alright?"

"No," Dorian said crisply. "No, actually, it's not, Chaol."

Chaol seemed to notice Raiden for the first time. His face went the color of puce as his eyes flicked to Syeira in the bed, a sheet pulled up to her chest.

He didn't say anything. He opened his mouth and closed it several times, gaping like a fish out of water.

"Look," Raiden said. "I think there's been some miscommunication here."

"Oh, really?" Manon purred. "Go on. Explain."

Raiden scratched the back of his neck. "It's just… You know, some fun. Nothing permanent."

Wrong thing to say. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_ thing to say.

Dorian Havilliard's hand closed around Raiden's throat so fast that he hardly had time to react, to dodge, as the King of Adarlan slammed the son of his Captain of the Guard against the wall.

Syeira screamed as she launched out of bed, clad only in her brasserie and undershorts. " _Let him go!"_ she shrieked, pounding on her father's arms. " _Let him go! Dad!"_

Dorian let go of Raiden, and he fell to the floor, gasping and clutching his neck. _Shit,_ the king was strong. And lethal.

"Pull yourself together, Syeira," Manon snapped. "That's enough."

Raiden cowered against the wall. The king wasn't even breathing hard. His eyes were alight with cold, icy, blue fury, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Raiden couldn't decide who to be more afraid of—the magic king, or the witch queen.

As it turned out, he didn't have time to contemplate it much further, because Chaol grabbed his son by his ear and yanked him to his feet. "Dorian, Manon," Chaol said, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "I sincerely apologize on the behalf of my son."

Neither one said anything. Chaol kept his firm grab on Raiden's ear as he dragged his son out of the Crochan Princess's bedchambers, shoving him into the hall.

* * *

Raiden wasn't sure if he'd ever seen his father this angry in his entire life.

He sat in a chair in his father's office, still shirtless. His father was glaring at Raiden from across the desk, his bronze eyes sparking. "What," Chaol Westfall said between gritted teeth, "exactly, was the thought process behind this stellar move?"

Raiden crossed his arms, giving Chaol a cocky, arrogant smile. _Eat me, you bastard._ "To take the edge off. Why else?"

Chaol glowered. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you, Rai?"

"Nothing. Like I said, it was just to take the edge off. No harm done."

"No harm done? _No harm done?_ " His father's face had gone purple. "You slept with the heir to the Crochan Crown, Raiden!"

"Multiple times, actually," he said.

Logically, Raiden knew that he shouldn't dig himself in any deeper. His father was already going to flay him alive. But gods help him, he _hated_ Chaol. _Hated_ him. Had since Raiden had been branded a wild, no-good mischief-maker at seven years old by his father, bound to end up in a shallow backwoods grave.

Chaol was about obedience, honor, discipline. Raiden was about raising hell.

His father's knuckles whitened. "Multiple times?"

Raiden gave him a smug grin, just to piss his father off. "Since spring."

It was autumn.

His father pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tell me you're joking."

"No. But I can tell you a joke, if you'd like. Have you ever heard the one about the three-headed fishwife and the wyvern?"

"Do you know what the consequences of this could be?" Chaol shouted, slamming his fist down on his desk. "You'd be lucky if you only got exiled from the _castle,_ Rai. I'd be lucky if I didn't lose my _job._ "

"Good thing I've always been a lucky hand at cards, then."

"This isn't a laughing matter, Raiden!"

"I should hope not. I never laugh about cards."

Chaol's eyes flashed. "Is it possible for you take anything seriously? Anything at all?"

Raiden's temper frayed. "What do you want me to say, Chaol? That I'm terribly sorry? That I love Syeira, that she's the sun and I am the stars, and our love will last throughout all eternity?"

"Gods, no." Chaol paled. "You don't love her, do you?"

Raiden scoffed. "Of course not. And she doesn't love me."

Lies. Lies, lies, lies. What was it about being around his father that made Raiden lie his ass off, made him present himself in the worst way possible?

"You'd better hope so, Raiden," Chaol said. "Because if there's anything more than that, you're in for a hell of a shock."

His heart twisted, but he forced a smile. "Me? Get attached? Give me some credit, Father, will you?"

Chaol's face darkened, making the jagged scar on his cheek stand out like a livid white line. "Get out. Just—Get out, Raiden. I don't want to have to look at you for another second."

"The feeling is mutual," he snarled, shoving back his chair. He threw open the door, slamming it shut behind him.

His father's words echoed in his head. _You're in for one hell of a shock._

He pushed the thought aside. He'd deal with that when the time came. For now, Raiden had to take care of the mess at hand.

 _Step one,_ he thought, _find a gods-damned shirt._

* * *

Syeira was dead.

After Chaol and Raiden left, she was left standing in the cold in her undergarments. Her mother was shooting daggers at her, but her father…

Her father refused to meet her eye. It hit her like an arrow piercing her chest.

They all stood in awful silence, thick enough that Syeira felt as if she were choking.

"Here," her mother said, clearly, cuttingly, slowly, "is what is going to happen. You are going to get dressed. You will meet us in our chambers in exactly fifteen minutes. One second later, and there will be consequences beyond your wildest dreams. Do you understand?"

She swallowed. "Mom—"

"Not another word, Syeira," her mother said. "Not right now."

Her mother strode from the room, her father following her. He hadn't looked at Syeira once.

She swallowed, left alone in her room. Raiden's shirt was still on the floor by her foot, and she picked it up, inhaling his scent. He always smelled like southern spices—like cumin and cayenne, probably a result of his mother's southern heritage.

 _Oh, Raiden. What have I gotten you into?_

She swept a hand across her cheek. "Pull yourself together," she told herself harshly, unconsciously repeating her mother's words from before. "You are the Crochan Heir. _Pull yourself together._ "

She worked quickly, folding Raiden's shirt and setting it on her bed. She dressed in a red tunic, braiding her hair haphazardly, swiping a line of kohl around her eyes. Appearances were everything.

When she emerged into the corridor outside her bedroom, her guards were gawking at her. She narrowed her eyes at them. "Something to say to me, boys?"

"N-no," one stammered. "Of course not."

Syeira had always thought it was ridiculous that these humans were guarding her—humans that were afraid of her. If she was attacked, she would be her own best line of defense, not these mortals.

She made her way down the hallway, stopping at the doorway to her parents' chambers. It had been exactly fourteen minutes.

Syeira took a deep, steadying breath, and knocked.

A maid opened it. She bowed her head. "Your Highness," she murmured, before allowing Syeira in and exiting the chambers herself. She must've had orders to leave as soon as Syeira arrived.

She tiptoed through her parents' rooms. For the chambers of a king and queen, they were somewhat subdued. Five rooms: the bedroom, the parlor, the study, the bathroom, and the closet. It was the study that Syeira had loved most as a child, the row upon row of her father's books, smelling of leather and ink.

But her parents were waiting in the parlor, the room outfitted with the pool and card tables, various chairs scattered about. It was flush with light from the window, lemony sunlight falling in dappled shadows across the plush red rug. Her father had his back to her, gazing out the window, and her mother was leaning against the wall, examining the glimmer of her iron claws.

"Sit," her mother said without looking up.

Syeira did as she was told. She would bear this beating, but she would not take it lying down. _You are the Crochan Heir. You can do this._

"What you did today," her mother said, speaking slowly, "was not simply foolish. It was inconsiderate, imprudent, thoughtless, and unwise."

"Sure you don't want to throw a Thesaurus at me and be done with it?" Syeira snapped.

Her mother met her gaze, and her golden eyes were so sharp that they seemed to delve beneath her skin, drawing blood. "Watch your tongue, Syeira Crochan-Havilliard."

Syeira's fingernails dug into the sides of her chair.

Her father spoke next, and the way his voice sounded—so cool, empty, and hollow—killed Syeira. She and her father had always been close. He had been the one to hold her after the ice had first exploded around her in a maelstrom of snow and sleet when she was six years old. She'd thrown a temper tantrum at her nursemaid, wailing and shrieking and pounding her fists. Daggers of sharp, frozen ice had exploded from her palms.

The way her nursemaid had looked at her…

"Don't be afraid of it," her father had told her, kissing her forehead roughly. "I love you, Syeira. You will go on to do great things. Do not be afraid of the power you possess."

Now, she couldn't help feeling that everything had changed.

"Is this a new occurrence?" Dorian Havilliard asked dully.

Syeira wished desperately that her parents didn't have the ability to scent lies like a bloodhound.

"No," she whispered.

"Are you a virgin?" her mother asked blatantly, matter-of-factly.

Syeira closed her eyes. "No."

A choked, strangled noise from her father at the window. Her mother's golden eyes had turned into daggers aimed for Syeira's heart.

"How many?" her mother said. "Just Westfall, or more?"

"Only Rai." It had always been only Rai. There had never been anyone else.

"How long?" her father said from the window.

"Depends." She moistened her lip. "Depends on what… on what you're asking."

Her mother let out a low, cruel laugh. "You know exactly what we're asking, Syeira. Don't make us spell it out loud."

She set her jaw. "Since spring."

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "How did you manage to hide your scent for that long?"

"Perfumes. Baths." Anything and everything, she wanted to say, but didn't. "Oils."

She was not prepared for what her mother asked next.

"How many times in your bed?"

Syeira froze. "I… Why the hell do you want to know that?"

"Because," her mother said calmly, "I need to know precisely how much damage you caused. Now tell me how many times he took you in your bed."

Across the room, her father's breath snagged.

"It… it didn't usually happen there," Syeira said, her stomach flipping. "Only two or three times. We tried to be careful."

" _Careful,"_ her mother mocked. "Not exactly the word I'd use."

"I'm sorry, alright? I made a mistake. I get it."

"No, not _alright,_ " her mother snarled. "You are the heir to the Crochan Crown, Syeira, not some peasant girl waltzing the streets. You are a gifted, deadly magician set to inherit one of the largest countries in the world. It was not _one mistake;_ it was a mistake made _over and over again._ You don't get to do that. You have a duty to your country, and to your people."

"To what?" Syeira said, getting to her feet. Her cheeks were hot, almost stinging. "To keep celibate? To remain some innocent, pretty little virgin? Come _on._ Were either of you virgins when you ascended to your thrones?"

Her parents were silent.

"That's what I thought," she said, disgusted.

Her father's voice cut through the room like a whiplash. "You are _fourteen years old._ "

"So?" she challenged.

"So," her father said, whirling around, a fury of ice cold enough to freeze flame, "you don't get to make that kind of decision. You don't get to decide when and who to let into your bed."

"Well, guess what, Dad?" Syeira cried, throwing her arms out. "I just did."

" _Watch your tongue,"_ her mother growled.

"Or what?" Syeira said.

Her father stared at her for a long, long time. "I'm writing to Rowan. This is unacceptable."

She recoiled as if she'd been slapped. "Uncle Rowan?"

"You," her father said, "are going back to your rooms to pack. You're going to Terrasen. Maybe he can drill some sense into you. Distance will do you good."

"You can't do this!" Syeira said, her eyes wide with terror. _Not away from Rai. Never away from Rai._

"Oh, yes, we can," her mother said. "Watch us."

"Rowan Galathynius is a madman," she said.

" _King_ Rowan Galathynius is a hero," her father snarled. "You should be so lucky as to have him give you the time of day."

"Dad," she begged. "Please. Don't do this."

"Go pack your bags, Syeira," her father said, already headed for his study, for his parchment and ink. "You're leaving tomorrow morning. And so is Raiden."

"Dont," she said, her voice trembling. "This isn't his fault."

"Honestly, Syeira," her mother said, tone laden with disgust. "I'm fairly certain you didn't force him into your bed."

Ice swirled around her feet. " _Don't. Please."_

"Control yourself, Syeira," Dorian said. He didn't even bother to halt his footsteps, or turn around. "And get out."

Syeira looked at them both, at her cruel, impassive mother, at her father, so rarely provoked into a fury, and spun on her heel, shoving the door open and kicking it shut hard enough to rattle the door frame.

 _You think I'm deadly, Mother? You think I'm a child, father?_

 _Just wait. Just watch me._

* * *

Raiden went back to his room at the castle, dressing and cleaning himself up quickly. He looked like shit. He and Syeira usually knew better, but they'd gotten drunk at a feast last night, swiping a bottle of wine from one of the tables. Their heads had been so cloudy that they hadn't considered the possible ramifications. All he remembered of the previous night was a flash of _Syeira,_ golden eyes, sable hair, and tanned, sugary skin.

And now, because of it...

 _I am never,_ Raiden thought, _drinking again._

Which was probably a lie. But the declaration made him feel better, anyway.

When he came back out into the hallway, people stared and pointed at him, whispering through cupped hands. He felt a trickle of anger in his stomach. He knew what people would likely say about him—that he was looking for a crown, that he was bored, that he'd taken advantage of her. None of which was true.

He decided to go to the breakfast hall to look for Syeira, but she wasn't there. He grimaced. Manon and Dorian weren't at their usual high table, either; only the other three Crochan-Havilliard children were seated at the expanse of mahogany set high and far above the rest of the tables.

As he walked in, halting on the threshold of the enormous oaken doors, people turned to look at him, murmurs rippling through the crowd like a wave. At the high table, the three remaining Crochan-Havilliards—Orion, Calynn, and Bevyn—turned to glower at him.

The combined force of their glares almost made him recoil.

All of Manon and Dorian's children scared the shit out of Raiden, Syeira included. The heir to the Crochan Crown might've been the scariest of all. He'd seen her invoke icy blasts before, and he'd never been able to get the picture out of his head, much as he'd tried.

But she wasn't the only one. Thirteen-year-old Orion, set to inherit the Crown of Adarlan, even _looked_ terrifying: a shock of silver-white hair, pale blue eyes, and iron teeth and claws that gleamed with lethality. He was the only male to ever get those iron accessories, and it was speculated to be a result of his parents' respective magics fusing together.

And then there was Calynn, only twelve but still thought to be the beauty of a family notorious for its looks. One golden eye, one blue eye, and a sheet of black hair streaked through with white. She was stunning, but clever. She might not have displayed any indication of powers, but that didn't mean she wasn't deadly.

Even seven-year-old Bevyn, known for little more than mischief and tricks played on portly nobles, was enough to send a shudder down Raiden's spine. The boy was a living portrait of Manon, with the same silver hair and amber eyes, and that cruel, conniving smile.

Syeira didn't inherit that. Her smile was softer, quieter, almost contemplative. He supposed that she must've gotten it from her father.

He exhaled and turned around, ducking sharply out into the corridor. He couldn't go back to his rooms, not when he knew his mother was probably already tracking him down. He couldn't face the look on Nesryn Westfall's face.

Where the hell was Syeira?

Chaol had been brutal, but Raiden wasn't an idiot. He knew he'd gotten the easy receiving end, and he'd left Syeira to the wolves. His mouth tightened as he took an unconscious set of twists and turns, passing by woven tapestries and suits of armor, glass windows and scurrying servants.

He pushed open a door without really thinking and found himself in the gardens, autumn air kissing his skin.

He'd always thought the gardens were the most beautiful part of the castle. Now, the leaves of the oak trees were touched with burnished crimson and gold, the branches and bark shivering, waiting for the winter to come. The wilting of the garden was a sight to behold, petals and pointed leaves strewn across the path like breadcrumbs. His breath fogged on the cool air, hovering tendrils of pale smoke.

He glanced back up at the castle, half-imagining that he could see her waiting in the room. Which was idiotic—Raiden wasn't prone to that kind of woe-is-me melodrama. But still he couldn't quench the worry in his stomach.

She had been the one to kiss him.

It was at her birthday party last spring. The entire castle had bursted with life, rolls of satin spilling out at the royal family's feet, crowns and tiaras and jewels ordered specially-made. The celebration itself had been a sight to behold, dancing and laughing and clapping until the early hours of the morning.

Raiden had been best friends with Syeira for as long as he could remember. He'd grown up with the Crochan-Havilliards, traveling with them to Crochan Country and Rifthold as they alternated years spent in their distant homelands. He was only a year older than Syeira, and despite everything, despite the fact that she was a powerful, aristocratic witch of Crochan, Blackbeak, and Havilliard blood, despite the fact that Raiden was the lowly son of the Captain of the Guard, they had fit. Inseparable from day one.

Syeira told him everything. He knew all there was to know about her. He knew the minute she'd discovered her powers. He knew how much she hated the crown on her head, how she feared ever living up to her parents, the very definition of _larger than life._ And Raiden had told her everything in return—how much he hated his father, how much recklessness and wildness pumped through his veins, how much he hated to disappoint his mother.

That night, she had dressed in red, the color of the Crochan and Adarlanian crown. Her dress was so red, so over-the-top crimson and carmine and scarlet that he'd stopped short, the wind knocked out of him. Rubies were woven into the satin and silk, and the neckline swept low enough to make breathing difficult.

When she'd first walked into the hall, heads had turned to look. Conversation died. Silence rung throughout the hall.

It hadn't been Raiden that she'd come to for a dance. It had been foreign ambassadors and dignitaries, the prince from Wendlyn and even young Channon Ashryver, two years younger but set to inherit the throne of Terrasen.

He'd lasted an hour before he couldn't stand it anymore, taking refuge in the gardens.

His feelings had changed long before that night, but that was the moment when he knew.

He'd stood in the sanctuary of damp earth and fresh springtime air for a long time. Hours, even. Raiden knew he couldn't go back in there, and he knew that he couldn't watch her. Not even tonight, but for the years of courtship and inevitably a marriage alliance that would follow. Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius had as good as named the son of Aedion and Lysandra Ashryver his heir.

He decided to tell his father that he wanted to enter the military. He was a year young, only fifteen, but his father's connections could help him in that world, even if it couldn't help him in others.

He'd found a place on a rough stone bench, tipping his chin up to look at the stars. There had always been some comfort in the quicksilver disaster overhead, the mess of fine-spun mercury.

And then he'd heard her voice.

"Rai?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing skittishly in his throat. Syeira was standing at the edge of the path, still wearing that gods-damned red dress.

He didn't say anything as she sat down beside him.

"You left," she said.

"Yeah."

"Why did you do that?" Her voice sounded almost hurt. "It was my birthday party, Rai, and you just _left._ "

"I'm sorry." That wasn't a lie. He _was_ sorry. For everything.

She set her jaw. "What's wrong with you tonight? Why are you so quiet? You're _never_ quiet."

Raiden kept his gaze pinned to the stars. "I'm leaving."

"Yes, I know. You just left my party. Why—"

"No," he said, halting her words. "I'm leaving for good. I'm going into the army."

Syeira froze. It was as if every muscle in her body had gone rigid. "What?"

"I'm going to join the army," he repeated. "My father's right. It's time that I start doing something productive with my life. I'm fifteen."

"Since when have you ever thought your father was right?" she said. "What the hell, Raiden? Where is this coming from?"

"I don't belong here, Syeira," he said, turning to her for the first time. Her features were hard—furious. An icy wind swept through him, and he wasn't sure if it was nature, a chill, or Syeira's magic.

"Of course you belong here. You've grown up here."

He shook his head. "I don't… I'm not like you. We come from very different places in life. And I think you know that."

"None of that shit has ever mattered to me," she snapped. "It doesn't matter to anyone in my family."

"Oh, really?" He laughed.

"Stop it!" she cried, getting to her feet and crossing her arms. "What's gotten into you?"

He felt something break inside his chest as she stood there in the garden, framed by the light from the ballroom, her eyes bright, her lips twisted into a scowl. "I have to go," he said, getting up to leave.

Her arm caught his shirtsleeve. " _Raiden. Stop."_

"Why the hell should I, Syeira?"

"Because," she said, and kissed him.

The world had tilted on its axis. She was cold, laced with veins of heat. She tasted like cedar and wine and ice, and though Raiden knew he should stop, knew he _had_ to stop, he couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

Now, back in the present, he stood before that same stone bench and sat down on it, surrounded by the flowerless, thorny stems of roses. He plucked one from a scraggly bush and twirled it in-between his fingers, watching it blur and stumble and whirl.

If it had been bad that night in spring, it had only gotten worse. Maybe he should've gone into the military after all.

He dropped the stem on the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. There was no future for him with the princess of Adarlan and Crochan Country. He didn't need his father to tell him that.

* * *

Syeira didn't pack. She went back to her rooms, locked the door behind her, laid down on her bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

Or at the fabric cover of her canopy, anyway. It was red, embroidered with gold, made of velvet so thick that it crinkled beneath her fingertips. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She couldn't think of Raiden—wouldn't think of Raiden. So she thought of King Rowan instead.

He'd ascended the throne through marriage. Years ago, before Syeira was even born, he'd been in love with Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. Syeira hardly knew anything about Aelin. She knew that both her parents had known Aelin personally, and there'd once been a rumor that Syeira's father had been romantically involved with the Fae queen-to-be, but Syeira had never paid that whisper much heed. Rumors were easy to start and difficult to end.

Aelin had done the unthinkable. She'd collaborated an army big enough to drive Erawan, the Valg King, into hiding, though he hadn't been destroyed completely. She'd passed the Wyrdkeys to Syeira's mother for safekeeping, and she'd married Rowan Whitethorn, the Fae whom she'd been rumored to love so dearly.

And then Maeve, the Fae queen from Wendlyn, had arrived, sweeping Aelin up when the fire-bringer was at her weakest and vanishing with her. Aelin, apparently, had sacrificed herself to save others.

They'd never found Aelin. They'd looked for years, and there were rumors that people were _still_ looking, even now. But she and Maeve had both disappeared, and her newly-wedded husband, Rowan, had taken the throne through marriage.

Syeira had seen the Fae king a handful of times. He never came to visit at Rifthold, and certainly never in Crochan Country. He remained in Terrasen, and on the couple of occasions that Syeira had gone to visit, he'd left a strong impression.

Bitter. Hard. That was the only way Syeira could think to describe him. They'd had a feast at the palace in honor of her family's visitation once, but Rowan had stayed on his throne, staring distantly off into space. There was something unnerving about his eyes. It was like he was constantly looking for something—or someone.

He didn't marry again, despite the urging of advisors. Instead, he named Aedion Ashryver, cousin and close friend of Aelin, the heir to Terrasen. Aedion had married a shapeshifter named Lysandra, and the line of inheritance would pass down through them. The Fae king was said to have centuries of life left in him, but it had often been speculated that he would step down before long. Syeira's parents had said as much.

"He can't just abdicate," her mother had said.

"Sure he can," her father had replied. "Aedion would make a fine king. Rowan shouldn't be forced to carry that burden forever."

"And what else would he do with his time? Round up Gavriel and Fenrys and go off to Wendlyn, searching for a dead woman?"

A pause. "You really think she's dead?"

"Think about it, Dorian. Aelin was strong. There's no way in hell that she would've let that Fae queen hold her for a decade and a half unless she was out of the picture entirely."

"What if there was some other reason?"

"Such as?"

"I don't know, Manon. I don't think any of us were really ever able to predict Aelin, even you."

"Even so. Rowan can't just step down. Do you really think that's what she would want? What she intended?"

"Shit, Manon."

"The truth is hard sometimes, Dorian," her mother had said. "Aedion Ashryver might be able to take the throne in theory, but the best person for the job is Rowan. You and I both know it."

"It's killing him," her father said softly. "I saw it when we went there. It's killing him to be stuck in a palace when all he wants to do is find her."

"She's gone, Dorian. I think it's about time we all realized she isn't coming back."

Rowan was unhinged. He might have been a good king, but Syeira had heard the rumors about him. He was unpredictable, cruel, and merciless.

She couldn't help wondering why on earth, out of all the places to go, her parents would send her to the court of a king broken by the death of his wife.

* * *

It was nightfall before Syeira dragged herself up from her bed. She grabbed a cloak and ducked out into the hallway, slipping past her guards with a stern look and descending a staircase. Somehow, she knew where she'd find him.

Raiden was out in the gardens, sitting on a stone bench. He looked as if he'd been there for a while—he was still, expression impassive.

Syeira didn't know the exact moment when she first started to notice him as a boy. Not as her friend, but as something different entirely; something that sent her veins humming and her mouth curling upwards. He'd always been handsome, with his dark skin, bronze eyes, and a shock of dark, reddish hair, but at some point, he'd changed. Grown taller, his shoulders broader, his voice deeper. She'd found herself regarding him differently, no longer sure how to act around him, how to talk or how to laugh.

"Hey," she said quietly.

He nodded. "Hey."

She sat down beside him. He wasn't wearing a jacket or cloak; just a shirt and a pair of trousers. "You must be freezing."

He shrugged. "Not really."

They both stewed in silence for a minute. "Why so silent?" she asked. "You've barely said two words. Where's the bravado of this morning?"

He winced. "About that…"

"Yeah, _about that._ " She nudged him. "'How's the weather?' Really, Rai?"

"It was an honest question. Autumn in Rifthold can be quite unpredictable."

She laughed, resting his head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her instinctively. _Cumin and cayenne._ She knew that she shouldn't be doing this, that her parents might actually kill them both if they saw her with him. But she was leaving for Terrasen in the morning, if against her will. Who knew the next time she'd be able to do this?

"Listen," she said, her throat closing up. "I…"

"You're leaving," he said flatly.

She blinked. "How did you know?"

"Call it an educated guess." He set his jaw. "Where are they sending you?"

"Terrasen. Apparently, I'm supposed to spend some time with Uncle Rowan."

He arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

"My gut tells me that there's another reason, too. My parents don't do anything for convenience. They always have ulterior motives."

"Bastards."

"I think so." She hesitated. "What—what are your parents doing to you?"

"I don't know. I haven't talked to them since Chaol hauled me into his office, yelled at me for fifteen minutes, and told me he couldn't stand to look at me anymore."

"Lucky."

"Your parents were that bad?"

"Worse."

Raiden swept a hand over his face. "How soon are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning." She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "I'm to go to Orynth."

He shook his head. "It wouldn't surprise me if my parents sent me off to the Southern Continent, if it's any consolation. We have connections there."

She grabbed his hand, lacing her slender fingers through his. "Just promise me that we'll see each other again, okay?"

He sighed. "Syeira—"

"Promise me. Even if it's a lie. Promise."

He turned to look at her, his bronze eyes dark and pained. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I promise," he whispered, and kissed her.

It was such a filthy lie that they were probably going to hell, joined by Hellas himself, but at that moment, Syeira couldn't bring her broken heart to care.

* * *

 **A/N: Here's the end of this chapter! Chapters for me are pretty unpredictable-this one is 6k words, but the next one will probably only be 2k. It just depends on the plot line. Anyway, thank you all so much for reading, and let me know what you think so far!**

 **-bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: It has come to my attention that I previously posted a chapter 2 of a PJO fic that I was writing, instead of chapter 2 of THIS STORY. I am absolutely MORTIFIED (and that's putting it lightly). I fixed it as soon as I could, and I just want to say thank you for everyone that let me know. I am so sorry. **

**In other news... t** **hank you SO MUCH to all who reviewed, favorited, and followed my last chapter-you guys make my day. I'm going to start posting a thank-you list of people who reviewed at the end of every chapter. Thank you all SO MUCH.**

* * *

CHAPTER 2

Leta ran for two days. She waded through streams, covered herself with mud and pine, and climbed through the treetops, soaring from branch to branch, all to disguise her scent and make it harder for Mohana to track her. When she finally stopped at the end of the second day after sprinting through the Cambrians for forty-eight hours, she was exhausted.

Every bone and muscle in her body hurt. She hadn't eaten, hadn't slept. But that wasn't unusual—sometimes Leta went days, even weeks, without proper sleep or nutrition. It was as if there was a reserve deep within her, a well of energy that she just had to tug on to access. As soon as she did, it was like a ribbon unfurling.

She made a small camp in the shadow of the mountains, striking flint together until she created a tiny red flame. Leta had never been good with fire; it was water that called and beckoned to her. She didn't know why—Mohana had never kept any books on Fae, and she'd only spoken to a handful of people in her life, let alone someone like her. The little knowledge she'd gleaned was taken from the cranky witch's insults.

She pulled out the browned, crinkled map out of her pack and unrolled it. If she had to guess, she'd say that there was a town about another day's trek west. It was still thought to be a mountain town, nestled fairly deep within the shadows of the Cambrians. But Leta knew what it was like to be truly secluded in the mountains, and that wasn't it.

She pulled out a thin strip of salt pork and chewed on it. It was tough and stringy, but she was starving. She leaned her back against a boulder, closing her eyes. Leta couldn't afford to sleep long, couldn't give Mohana time to catch up with her, though that was assuming the old bat was even looking for her at all. But somehow she thought that the Ironteeth would resent losing her slave.

Her eyes fluttered. _Only a few hours,_ she thought.

And fell into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep.

* * *

It was dawn when Leta awoke, and her joints were still stiff and sore. She hadn't run like that before in her entire life, and her body wasn't taking kindly to the sudden strain. She would have to take it easy today, but she had to reach that town by nightfall. She glanced in her bag. She'd managed to steal three or four coppers, but nothing more.

She started west, the forest air cleansing her lungs. Leta loved the forest in the mountains—loved the scent of pine and snow. Something about it was achingly familiar.

She walked for hours, the sun rising in the sky and falling, lightening and darkening. Silence settled around her as leaves and underbrush crunched beneath her battered boots.

She smelled the smoke of the town before she saw it: steadily-burning wood and charcoal.

Some part of her felt nervous. She had never seen a town. Neither she nor Mohana had ever left the little cabin.

Sometimes Leta wondered what her life would've been like if the witch hadn't found her. Mohana had said that she'd discovered her as a baby, abandoned on the side of the road, and Leta felt a pang in her chest when she thought of it. Who had deserted her that far into the mountains, and why?

It was no use pondering the what-ifs or what-could-have-beens. Leta was free now, and that was all that mattered.

About a mile after she smelled it, she saw the smoke, curling up in grayish plumes above the foliage. She hiked further, halting only once to retrieve another piece of salt pork from her pack. Her supply was still high, and she prayed it was enough to get her all the way to Varese.

The sounds of the town grew louder, increasing in volume as she crept closer. The murmur of voices, the sound of a cart's wheels dragging through the splattered mud, doors opening and slamming.

And then, before she knew it, she had entered the town.

There weren't even any roads surrounding it; just one main thoroughfare through the center. There was a dry goods store, a general supply shop, a few homes made of rough-hewn wood, and an inn. Rosy light and merry noise flooded out from the inn's windows, spilling a glow onto the muddy street.

There were groups and patches of people everywhere, it seemed to Leta, walking from place to place and talking amongst themselves. She felt as if her feet were rooted to the ground. She'd never seen so many people in one place before.

She took a deep breath. She might not be able to get a room, but she could probably get a meal at the inn. She headed down the street, tied her long, silver hair into a knot, shoved her cowl over her head, and headed toward the pub.

As soon as she opened the door, she was slammed with an onslaught of senses. Tough beef marinating in stew, stale cups of ale; the sweat and grime of an inn that probably received most of its profits from traveling merchants. There was laughter and shouting, music from a fiddle player in the corner.

Leta gulped and made her way to the corner, seating herself behind a table. She didn't know how to order a drink or a meal. Should she go up to the counter?

"Hello, lovely," a rough, gruff voice said from behind her.

She glanced up. A portly man was leering at her. "Hello," Leta said uneasily.

The man stumbled into her and grabbed her for support, knocking the hood off of her cloak in the process. Nearby, another group of men—probably the oafish man's friends—guffawed. Her cheeks heated.

"Sorry," he slurred.

Leta twitched away from him. "Let me go, please."

His hand didn't leave her shoulder. "What's a pretty girl like you doing in the mountains?" His eyes fell on her pointed ears, and he jerked back, looking momentarily frightened. "A Fae." His face relaxed. "You must be fun in bed. Is it true you bite to get off?"

Leta jerked away. "I said, _let go._ "

"Ooh," a man called from a few feet away. "Feisty. Sure you can handle her, Marolf?"

Marolf grinned at Leta. "I'd say so." He grabbed her, pulling her closer, and all of Leta's thoughts became deafening white noise.

The man's cup of ale exploded all over them, drenching the two of them in alcohol. The music dimmed. People turned to stare.

He blinked at her. "What the hell…"

Before he could finish, a large, imposing shadow fell over the table. "Let her go," a voice rumbled. Low. Menacing.

Leta turned to stare. A man was standing in front of her, at least six and a half feet tall, with onyx eyes, a cruel smile, and dark, tanned skin. Black hair fell in tangles around his shoulders.

With a start, she realized that he had pointed ears and canines, too. Another Fae.

Marolf raised his eyebrows. "Oh? And who's going to make me?"

The Fae smiled grimly. "Me." And, so fast that Leta couldn't even track his movements, he reached down, yanked a knife from a scabbard at his side, and pinned the oaf against the wooden wall by the cloth of his shirt.

Leta covered her mouth with her hand.

The Fae hadn't even looked at her. He cocked his head at Marolf and said, "So. Should we take it a step further, or should you learn when to hold your tongue?"

Marolf spat at the Fae. "What is she, your mate? _Animal._ "

Even faster than the last time, the Fae took a knife out of his boot and jammed it through the fleshy skin in Marolf's hand, pinning bone and blood to the wall this time instead of cotton. Leta winced, closing her eyes. Mohana had done that to her once, and it had hurt like hell.

The man shrieked as blood began to bubble up and dribble onto the floor. " _Shit. Fae bastard, you piece of shit—"_

"Now, now," the Fae said pleasantly. "Such language."

" _Fuck you, you—"_

But the Fae kept on talking, still smiling. "Can I trust that you'll keep the hell away, or should I kick your ass from here to Terrasen? I hear that Rowan Galathynius is another one of those Fae bastards." He mock-shuddered. "Awful, isn't it?"

Marolf shook his head, his features still contorted in pain. "No," he gasped. "Look… I'm… sorry. So sorry. _Shit._ "

"Good," the Fae said, and yanked the knife from his hand and his shirt. Marolf crumpled to the floor, but the Fae simply sheathed the clean knife, grabbed the back of Marolf's collar, kicked open the door, and hurled him into the night. He landed with a _thud_ out in the dirty street.

The Fae raised his eyebrows at the crowd. "I won't have to do that again, will I?"

No one said a word.

"Excellent." He waved a hand. "Now, please. Get on with your silly, sad, pathetic lives."

The chatter resumed, albeit furtively, and the man wiped the blood off of the knife he'd used to stab the man's hand with the hem of his shirt. "You should know better." With a start, Leta realized the Fae was addressing her. He still hadn't so much as glanced her way. "Females shouldn't travel alone in these part of the mountains. Even if you are a Fae, you clearly don't know how to properly defend yourself."

Leta's cheeks burned hot with resentment, but she forced it down. "Thank you."

His eyes flicked up at met hers for the first time. "Where are you—"

And then he stopped. Stared at her. His jaw lowered an inch.

"What?" Leta asked.

The Fae didn't say anything. His face had gone bone-white.

She was beginning to feel defensive. "What?" she repeated. "Do I have something stuck in my teeth?"

He was still silent. It was as if he didn't trust himself to speak.

"Did I do something wrong?" Leta said.

"Your eyes," he managed hoarsely.

"What about them?"

"They're—" He fumbled for the words. "Where are you from?"

"The east," she replied.

"That's impossible."

Leta raised a brow. "Really?"

"What's your name?"

"Leta," she answered. "What's yours?"

He didn't deign to give her an answer. "What's your family name?" he demanded. "Your surname?"

"I don't have one," she said.

"No. Who are your parents?"

"I don't know," she said, recoiling slightly. "Why are you asking me all of these questions?"

The Fae studied her for a long, interminable moment. "Come with me," he said finally.

"What? Why? You can't just make me go with you!"

"That trick," he said suddenly, getting up in her face. "The ale. That was magic, wasn't it?"

Leta cringed. "I…"

" _Answer me!"_ he snarled.

Her hands balled into fists. "I don't have to."

The Fae glared at her before he whirled. "Follow me," he said over his shoulder, as he turned and plucked his leather coat off of a chair at the bar. "Or I'll tell Marolf and his friends that you're available and ready for a pleasant tumble."

The blood drained from her face. "You wouldn't do that."

"Watch me," the Fae said, yanking the door open. "You've yet to learn just how ruthless I can be, girl." He gestured toward the night air. "After you."

Leta debated, but there was really no choice. She wasn't about to let Marolf within a ten-foot radius of her again.

But then again, who was the bigger beast?

She glowered at him as she stormed out the door.

"My name is Lorcan, by the way," the Fae said, following her out and striding down the street as if he hadn't a care in the world. "I wish I could say I was pleased to meet you."

* * *

Leta followed Lorcan through the town, past the singular, dirt street and into the thicket of trees. She was furious; her veins were humming with red-hot anger.

Lorcan glanced back. "Keep up. I know you can."

Leta bit back a retort. The Fae had saved her life, and he was clearly dangerous, but she still felt irritated. Thank the gods she'd had fifteen years of learning to hold her tongue.

She didn't want to hold her tongue anymore, though. She was ready to be free.

He pushed aside a few branches and revealed a campsite, nothing more than a bedroll, a pack, and the charred remains of a fire. He sat down on a log, gesturing for her to do the same.

But as he extended an arm to her, he stiffened. His eyes became flinty and hard. "Hold out your arm."

Leta would do no such thing. "I don't think so," she said. "Not until you explain to me what this is all about."

"Don't be stupid," he said through gritted teeth.

But she wasn't about to let freedom slip through her fingers so easily, from the grip of one keeper to another. "Don't be an ass," she snapped.

Lorcan blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Why do you want to see my forearm?" Leta asked. "And why did you bring me back here? I'm thankful for what you did at the inn, but—"

"Does your blood run red or blue?" he said quietly.

She froze. "W-what?"

"Your blood," he repeated. "I can smell witch on you. I need to know if it's running through your veins, or it it's from close proximity."

She swallowed, stumbling back. "The… It's the latter. Close proximity."

"Prove it." He advanced toward her, but before he took another step, there was a _whoosh._ His eyes widened, fixating on a point above her head.

She spun on her heel. A stream nearby had erupted, sending a spray of cold, fresh water into the air. It drifted down to the ground, catching the last fading rays of sunlight. _Gods._ She didn't usually lose control like this, but she was tired and desperate. She couldn't afford to make a misstep.

Lorcan shook his head. "How…?"

"I think I have a little of it," Leta said, more to distract him than anything else, tucking a strand of silver hair behind her ear.

"Magic?"

"I don't know. I don't know much about Fae." She strode forward and took the knife from his grasp. He didn't protest—either he thought she was harmless, or he thought he could easily disable her within a second if she tried to make a move.

Leta had very little allies in the world. Maybe Lorcan, if that was even his real name, could become one.

She raked down her sleeve. Her skin was marked with scars—she had never been able to heal the rake of iron claws, though she could heal just about anything else without much thought. Lorcan sucked in a sharp breath.

Looking him dead in the eye, she raised the knife and brought it down on her skin. A thin red line of blood welled, leaking crimson onto the ground.

"Red," she replied.

Lorcan shook his head as she rolled her sleeve back down. Her skin had already knit together. "Why the hell do you smell like a witch? I thought you said you came from the east."

"I do," she said.

"Then why do you smell like an Ironteeth?"

"I don't trust you," Leta said, shaking her head and folding her arms.

Lorcan raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"I don't trust you," she repeated. "Why should I? You're insane. You take me away from an inn with threats, almost cutting me open like I'm some fish, and then demand to know everything about me? Why should I tell you any part of my past?"

"Because if you don't," he said, tone low and dangerous, "I'll—"

"I don't really give a shit what you do," she said, lifting her chin. "I'm not going to let you bully and trample me like I'm some stray piece of garbage from the side of the road. My past is my past. _Mine._ "

Lorcan dragged a hand through your hair. "You don't _get it._ "

"Really? What don't I get?"

"You're a Fae," Lorcan said bluntly. "And yet you claim to have no family name. That doesn't happen. You have to belong to a family."

"I don't," she said. "I'm an orphan. And that's about all you need to know."

But Lorcan was already shaking his head. "No. Not possible. Fae are rare enough, and we've gotten rarer since the purges in Erilea and Maeve's disappearance."

She wrinkled her brow. "What purges? Who's Maeve?"

"Tell me you're joking."

"I'm not," she said. "I've spent my whole life as a prisoner. I'm not important to anything or anyone."

"That's where you're wrong," Lorcan said. "Do you want to know why, little Fae?"

She didn't answer. She tapped her foot, fuming silently.

"You want to know why I brought you here? Why I became so concerned in the inn?"

"Sure," she said. "An explanation would be nice."

He growled. "You have the eyes of an Ashryver."

"Ashryver?" she said. The unfamiliar name fumbled on her tongue.

He tipped his head back and laughed. "The royal family of Wendlyn," he said.

Leta blinked.

"Interesting, isn't it? What do you claim to be? A nameless nobody?"

"I _am_ a nameless nobody," she retorted.

All she heard was _royal family,_ said again and again in her head.

"I'm given quite a dilemma, Leta," he said. "And I'm not sure if you realize how serious it is. Those eyes aren't given easily. The Ashryvers don't make bastards often, and when they do, they honor them."

She shrank back. "I…"

"I make a point never to underestimate people," he said, turning around. His muscles jutted out from the back of his shirt. "Especially seemingly innocent girls. I made that mistake once, and it was enough." He sat down, leaning against a boulder. "Get some sleep. We're leaving in the morning."

" _You're_ leaving. _I'm_ not going anywhere with you."

Lorcan cocked his head. "Pull down your sleeve."

"Didn't I just show you my blood?"

"You showed me your scars, too," he said frankly.

She flinched. "Those are none of your business."

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not." She stiffened at this—how could it _possibly_ be his business? "But I'll make you a bargain, Fae."

She laughed, for once speaking the words she was thinking. "A bargain? With _you_?"

"I keep my promises," he said, baring his teeth.

And the strange thing was, as little as Leta knew him and as very, very little as she trusted him, she believed Lorcan about that.

"Fine," she said, folding her arms and tapping her foot. "What is it?"

"I'll teach you how to use your power if you'll cooperate with me."

She froze. "What?"

"I know you have a gift," he said. "And I know it's considerable, but uncontrolled and undisciplined."

She didn't say anything.

He gave an incline of his head. "I'm going to take a wild guess and say you aren't trained. If you stay with me, I'll teach you how to use that power—teach you how to become powerful enough that no one will ever be able to touch you again. Is it just water, or something else? Fire, perhaps?"

She shook her head numbly. "No. Not fire."

Lorcan arched a brow. "Fair enough."

"I think it's just water. I can hear…" Her cheeks flushed.

"What?"

"Never mind. It's stupid."

"Tell me. I'm curious."

 _Ally,_ she reminded herself. Maybe he could lead her to others like herself. How far was Leta going to get through the mountains with a few palty coppers to her name, anyhow?

"I can hear it calling to me sometimes," she said, feeling foolish. "Like it wants me closer."

Lorcan stared at her for a moment. "And do you give in?"

"Not usually." _Not when I'm in control._

He stood, brushing off his pants. "Come with me." He started off into the woods.

She chewed her lower lip, debating, but gods help her, she was curious. And if she learned how to use this power, how to guard herself… Maybe she wouldn't have to be so afraid anymore.

She followed.

Lorcan had gone to the stream. It was little more than a silty creek, the icy rivulets of the brook babbling in the twilight. He halted at the edge. "Is it calling to you now?" he asked.

She nodded. She could hear it, thrumming insistently. _Come. Play with me. Toy with me. Feel me._

"Give in."

Leta's eyes snapped open wide. "N-no," she stammered.

"Why not?"

In mind's eye, she saw Mohana. _Never embrace that power. It will kill you. Fae demon. Abomination._

"I-I can't," she said.

"If you want to master this power," he said, "you must. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't know. Nothing good."

"Just let it flow through you," Lorcan said. "You're holding it back even now, I can tell. In order to control your power, you have to face it. Step one."

She glowered at him. "Really?"

"I have news for you, Leta," he said, leaning against the thick trunk of a conifer. He plucked a pine needle from a sap-laden bough and stuck it in-between his front teeth. "I'm one of the most powerful Fae to walk the earth. I served Queen Maeve for centuries. I'm half a millennium old. So it just so happens that I know what I'm talking about. Give into the fucking power."

She jumped. "Are you always this crude?"

He cracked a grin. "You haven't seen anything yet. Now do it before I shove you into the creek and leave you to freeze to death."

"You're bluffing."

"Want to try me?"

"I'm not sure that these are very effective teaching techniques."

"Harshness has worked before," Lorcan said, something flickering in his eyes. "Breathe, Leta. Count in the seconds. Feel the pulse of the water. Become it. Lose yourself." She glowered at him, but he just wagged his finger. "Ah-ah-ah. Glaring won't solve any problems."

Scowling, she closed her eyes and did as he said, counting silently in her head, attempting to lose herself in the rush of the river.

 _One, two, three._ An invisible weight lifted from her shoulders.

 _Four, five, six._ She could hear the water singing to her in some ancient tongue.

 _Seven, eight, nine._ It was beating in her veins even now.

Blood was water, water was blood. There was no difference save for color.

"Good!" Lorcan shouted, his voice distant-sounding. "Keep it up!"

Sounds were clanging in her head like the distant ring of a bell. A woman screaming, the sound so heart-wrenching that something in her chest fissured and broke. Another woman's cool, even voice. And then rough, calloused hands, big and strong. A man's hands? Her father's?

Dimly, she heard Lorcan curse.

She smelled the iron tang of blood. The woman's screams were never-ending, and she could almost make out her words. _Please! Don't take her! Please!_

She felt the wool of a warm blanket. She felt, with clarity, the sting of cold air. She heard an infant's wail, and a man saying, _Shh, shh, now. I've got you. I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep you safe._

These memories were jagged edges of stained glass. They cut deep and true, welling blood on her skin like the knife's blade had only moments earlier.

Leta opened her eyes. And gaped.

She had emptied the stream. All that was left was a sandy creekbed and a few minnows, flopping and gasping weakly.

The water had risen above her head, trapped in the air, circling and weaving in and out, ribbons thick as her waist. It was infinite, spreading out to cover the sky, and she realized with no small amount of terror that it was all because of her.

The illusion shattered, and the water came crashing down on the forest.

Leta was knocked off her feet, almost swept away by the current, but she felt a hand close over her collar and lift her up. It was over in a second, leaving an inch of freezing water on the ground. She shivered, unsure whether her face was wet with the creek or her tears.

Both she and Lorcan were drenched. He'd been the one to haul her up.

Leta felt tired—but emotionally, not physically. She knew that, should she want to, she could easily lift up the stream again and hold it there for hours—days, even. Maybe weeks. She wasn't even winded, and Lorcan could tell.

He set her down, wiping water from his cheeks. He looked at her for a long, long time.

"That's some power you've got there," he said finally.

Her teeth were chattering to hard for her to speak.

"Come on," Lorcan said, sighing. He headed back to the campground, and she followed.

Her water damage had been so extensive that his bedroll, pack, and supplies were all soaking wet. He snarled a curse. "We're going back to the inn."

Her teeth were still chattering too hard for her to reply.

"You need to wash off," he said, seemingly oblivious to his own current state. "And you need to be someplace warm."

"I-I c-can't p-pay," she stammered.

"I'll pay for you," he said. "In the morning, we're going to work on a little control." He hefted what remained of his pack over his shoulder. "And you're going to help me."

Leta didn't know whether he was an ally or an enemy, but at that moment, she went against her basest instinct and trusted him. He had helped her unravel a sleeping beast inside of her, and only he could help her tie it back up.

She trudged back toward the inn with Lorcan, wondering about this new girl beginning to emerge inside of her mere days after sprinting from the cabin in the woods. Not a fearful, cowering prisoner. No. This girl was a sharp-tongued Fae with Ashryver eyes, dealing in blood and emptied rivers.

* * *

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	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm back with chapter 3! Again, thank-yous all around to everyone who reviewed, followed, and favorited. You guys are the reason that I keep writing, seriously! And thank you again to everyone that let me know about my mistake last chapter (yikes).**

 **Anyways, here's chapter 3... a bit shorter, because, well, exams (chemistry is slowly/not slowly killing me), but don't worry, the next chapter will be long. ;)**

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* * *

CHAPTER 3

Raiden was right. His parents were sending him to the Southern Continent.

He got back to his parents' rooms late that night, trudging into his parents' chambers only after Syeira had headed back to her rooms. The autumn chill had sunk into his bones, making his movements heady and leaden, his heart like a fistful of iron in his chest. Or maybe, he figured, that was just the aftereffects of the day's events.

His mother and father were sitting in chairs by the fireplace, a half-empty bottle of wine in-between them. They were speaking in hushed murmurs, arguing faintly and gazing at the fire, but their conversation had halted the minute Raiden walked into the room.

Nesryn Westfall met his eye, her lips nothing more than a sliver of white. "Where have you been?"

He leaned against the stone wall. His parents' rooms were simple, just a bedroom, a tiny sitting room, and a bathroom, all flush with the warm flames from the fire. His parents didn't particularly care for luxury, which Raiden found somewhat ridiculous. Their rooms were a study in brown and gray.

"Gardens," he answered.

"All day?" Chaol asked.

"Yes."

Something in Nesryn's face softened, and her shoulders seemed to relax. The glow from the fire turned her burnt-sugar skin gold. Raiden's mother had always been better at understanding him—even if his father couldn't see behind his veneer of biting sarcasm, his mother could. He suspected that she was where he'd gotten the wit from in the first place.

"So," Raiden said, folding his arms. "What are you going to do with me?"

"That's a good question," his father muttered.

Nesryn shot her husband a look. "Dorian and Manon sent us word a few hours ago," she said. "You're…" She hesitated. "You're to be gone from the castle in two days."

"To never return, I suppose?" Raiden said caustically, rubbing his forehead.

"Well…" Nesryn trailed off. "It didn't specify. But I'm not sure I would blame Dorian and Manon if that were the case, Rai."

 _Ouch._ Raiden straightened. "Oh."

"What you did today…" his mother continued.

"I get it," he snapped. "It was stupid, idiotic, whatever. It won't happen again. Dad already gave me shit for it."

Nesryn chewed on her lower lip for a moment, as if debating the merit of pushing the issue, but her shoulders slumped. She looked exhausted, as if she'd aged ten years over the course of the day. "We're sending you to Torre Cesme," she said. "Pack tonight. There's a ship that's leaving the harbor tomorrow morning."

"You're to meet Willa and her children there," Chaol said, referencing the few family members that lived down south.

"Perfect," Raiden said. "Great."

"There are consequences for your actions, Raiden," his father said. "You have to learn how to deal with them."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"I don't know," Chaol said. "Sometimes I'm just not sure."

Something cracked inside his chest. "I'm sorry, alright?" he snapped, but the bite was weakened by the hitch in his voice. Chaol jerked back, looking startled, but Raiden didn't take his apology back.

He _was_ sorry. He was sorry for all that he'd done, all the trouble and heartache that he'd caused. He was sorry for the pile of shit that he'd landed Syeira in, and the problems he'd made for her parents. Manon and Dorian were scary, yes, but they were also good rulers and good people, even the semi-cannibalistic witch queen. Raiden had thrown it all in their face.

So what if he'd been lonely? So what if he'd been unsure, insecure? So what if he'd grown up with the knowledge that one day, he'd join the army with his somewhat subpar fighting skills and likely get himself killed on Morath, version two?

He could still hear the screaming from the first battlefield. He couldn't imagine the keening that would come from the second.

Raiden didn't say any of this. It wasn't how he did things. He was an expert in masks.

"Go to bed, Rai," his mother said, turning toward the fire. The crackling hearth had turned her cheeks crimson. "We'll deal with the rest in the morning. Go to bed for now."

Raiden thought he might have whispered _thank you_ before closing the door, but he wasn't sure.

He knew that there was more, or course—that there would be details given to him in the morning, that their conversation was not yet over. But he was tired just then, tired and sad and angry, and he wanted to go to sleep and forget about the world for a little while.

When he was young, the maids at the castle used to call him _Fire Tongue._ He'd always been rude and brash, often a step beyond disrespectful.

But he'd spent the first six years in war tents, nursed to sleep by the wails of the sick and dying. He had reason to like his masks.

The door shut behind him with a solid _thud._

* * *

Raiden packed that night. When his father came to wake him that morning, he dressed and left the castle without complaint, heading out on foot. But he insisted on going alone.

On his way out of the castle, he saw a carriage slipping down the drive, trailing mashed-up leaves. It was glossy, embossed with gold, red, and Adarlan's royal seal, surrounded by a group of six or so guards on horseback and liveried footmen dangling from the lip.

Through the curtained window, Raiden just barely caught a glimpse of thick black hair. _Syeira._

And it was at that precise moment that Raiden decided he was not going to Torre Cesme.

Oh, he would leave, alright. He'd have to—Raiden had no desire for another altercation with either the magic king, the witch queen, or their three remaining terrifying children.

But he had a pouch full of gold and a pack with all he could ever need crammed inside, and he was headed to a shipyard full of boats. He could go anywhere.

Raiden set into a run—through the wrought palace gates and into the city, already blooming with life and frenetic activity, streets blurring beneath his feet as he sprinted for the river as if Mala herself had licked his heels.

The docks were a flurry of movement and activity. Sailors hollered to each other, fishermen gutted trout and salmon on the banks, merchants advertised their wares, courtesans flashed their smiles and their skirts, and travelers scurried from place to place, checking for cheap and cheaper fares. The air smelled of stale river grime, muck, sweat, and possibility, traveling on a breeze biting as his tongue.

Almost immediately, Raiden bypassed the small skiffs and the modest sailboats, the medium-sized cargo holds and even passenger liners. No: he went for the warship.

It was enormous, with three masts, billowing white sails, and a mermaid figurehead twice his size, her eyes closed, a sculpted starfish at the base of her throat. Sailors dove down ropes, running back and forth, mopping the deck and skidding down the wooden planks. It was big enough to be a warship, but now that he narrowed his eyes, he could see the bulky crates stacked near the prow, others being loaded and unloaded onto the ship. One crate tumbled down the gangplank, and the overseer hollered a slew of curses that made even Raiden flinch.

It was chaotic, hectic, infused with life. He loved it immediately.

He made his way over to the ship. As he got closer, he saw the name of the ship embossed on its side in faded, gilded paint: _Queen Evalin II._

Dimly, the name rung a bell. He reached years back, to hours spent learning history and theory in musty classrooms. Evalin had been the Crown Princess of Terrasen, set to inherit the throne with her husband, Crown Prince Rhoen. They'd been assassinated in their beds, if he remembered correctly—one of Syeira's grandfather's many gifts to the world.

But it wasn't this that piqued his interest. Evalin was an Ashryver, hailing from Wendlyn, the older, far more dangerous land across the sea.

He made his way over to a sailor from the boat. "Hey!" Raiden called, jogging to catch up.

The sailor—dirty, grimy, and pockmarked, with hair pulled back into a rattish ponytail—scowled. "What do you want, boy?"

"Where's this ship heading?" he asked.

"Wendlyn," the sailor replied. "There's some cargo we're taking to Varese."

"I thought Varese was inland."

"It is, but it's on a river. Like this gods-damned shithole." The sailor spat on the ground. "What the hell do you want?"

"Can I get passage?"

The sailor rose his eyebrows. "What's a nice boy like you want to get across an ocean for?"

"Does it matter?"

"Sure," the sailor said. "But it don't matter even if you have a reason. We don't take vacationers."

"I'll pay," Raiden offered.

"Don't matter. Didn't you just hear me? This is a cargo ship, not a liner."

"I'll work, then," he said. "As one of the crew. Work in exchange for transport to Varese."

The sailor shrugged. "Not my call. Go onboard and find the captain. Ask him."

He did as the sailor instructed with a word of thanks, and headed up the creaky wooden gangplank crusted with dried salt and river muck. He had to shake a hermit crab off his boot.

If the deck had been chaos from far-off, it was pandemonium up-close. Hauling and spitting and swearing and shouting and running, all within a hundred feet or so. Raiden grinned. Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

"Do you know where to find the captain?" he yelled at a sailor.

"Sure," the sailor said, jerking his head toward a door about fifty feet down the ship. "Just don't feel too put-out if he decides not to answer."

Raiden sprinted down to the captain's office, shoving past other sailors. The office was understated, little more than a wooden hatch over the deck. He banged his fist on the weatherbeaten door in an effort to be heard over the din. Despite what the sailor had warned, the door swung open to reveal the captain, grim-faced and irritated-looking. "What do you want?" he barked.

"Can I work on your ship?"

The captain shook his head. "I don't need more help."

"You don't have to pay me," Raiden said. "I'll work in exchange for passage to Wendlyn. I heard your ship was headed to Varese."

The captain squinted at him. "Didn't you hear me? I don't need more help."

"Then can I pay you?" Raiden said. "Just for passage?"

"Find another ship," the captain said, already moving to get past.

"Please," Raiden said. "I want to get on this ship. _Please._ "

The captain paused. He was an awful-looking man, with sickly yellow skin and eyes that seemed to bug out from his head. "What's your name?"

"Raiden," he answered. "Raiden Westfall."

Inwardly, he knew that this was a very, very bad idea. His parents had family in Torre Cesme, and they would be expecting Raiden at the docks. But even so, Raiden couldn't help but feel that getting on this ship, heading to Wendlyn, was the right thing to do. He'd always been stupidly superstitious like that.

The captain knit his brows. "Is your father Chaol Westfall?" Raiden winced but nodded. "I fought with him in the last war. He's a good man."

He didn't know what to do with this information.

The captain shook his head. "I want two silvers," he said. "And you work every damn day, you hear me? No complaining, no nothing."

"Thank you," Raiden said, grinning wide. "I won't make you regret it, I swear."

"Best not," the captain grunted. "Or you'll find yourself swimming with the sharks."

He didn't sound like he was kidding, and Raiden's smile faltered.

"We leave the docks in three hours!" the captain shouted as he made his way down the ship. "Make yourself of use!"

"Yes, sir!" Raiden yelled, and it occurred to him that he'd never said the word _sir_ in his life.

* * *

Syeira caught a glimpse of Raiden before she left, and it almost killed her.

He had a pack strung over his back—so he was leaving after all. She wondered if his parents were sending him to the Southern Continent or some other place; down to Melisande or Ellywe or, gods forbid, to the army. She didn't think she could stomach that.

Rai was a good fighter, but Syeira had heard her parents talking. The war with Erawan had ended, but the Valg king was still alive, regrouping his forces. Her parents had two of the Wyrdkeys, but the third was still in the hands of the Valg.

Sooner or later, Erawan would rise. And when he did, there would be no Aelin Galathynius to save them.

She didn't want Rai in the army, not when he could so easily be sent to Morath to die. Syeira had been born on a battlefield, and the war hadn't ended until she was five. She could still remember walking through the ranks of the fallen, could still remember the sour stench of rotting corpses and the stale echoes of screams.

The carriage rolled off, her maid humming and singing to herself as she dipped and lifted her needle through a white cloth. _Embroidery._ Syeira had never been much good with a needle and thread unless it involved patching up someone's flesh.

" _Oh, for she was a lovely lass,"_ her maid sung, her voice surprisingly high and sweet, " _and he was old and crass."_

As the trees blurred together, Syeira found herself thinking once again about the king of Terrasen. There were rumors that Aelin was still alive, hiding out somewhere. Once there had been definitive word of a sighting of her on the northern coast of Wendlyn. Years ago, of course, when she was only about eight.

She still remembered it—remembered the look on her father's face. He'd wept. Syeira could count on one hand the amount of times she had seen her father cry, but when word had reached her of Aelin's reappearance, he had sobbed like a babe.

She'd heard that Rowan Galathynius had frozen in his seat when he'd heard the words, stock-still. She'd heard that he'd grown an ocean with his tears. She'd heard that, upon hearing the rumor that a little boy with bright green eyes and hair like honey had been at Aelin's side, the invincible, centuries-old warrior had fallen to his knees.

But there was no Aelin to be found. The lead was a dead-end, probably started by someone unaware of the anguish that they would renew. There was no little boy with green eyes and blond hair, there was no fire-breathing bitch queen with an army of candlelit flame. There was only a smoky bar and a rumor, nothing more than the dark spaces in-between the shadows and the lights.

Syeira curled her hands. Her parents didn't talk about Aelin often, but when they did, she made sure to listen. When she inherited the throne one day, it might be her turn to face Erawan, without the warrior queen at her side.

She closed her eyes. Just briefly. And when she opened them, she almost screamed.

An asp was sitting in the corner of the carriage, curled and wound up tight. Its scales were golden, its pupils black slits. A pink, forked tongue slithered out, and the asp hissed.

For a second, she thought she heard it speak to her.

 _Find the wolf._

She jolted, blinking once, twice. The snake wasn't there. It was as if it had never been there at all.

"Your Highness?" the maid said anxiously. "Is everything alright?"

Syeira steadied herself, forcing a smile. "Of course," she lied. "I just got a bit of a chill."

The maid clucked her tongue and retrieved a blanket, spreading it over Syeira's lap. "Here you are, darling," she said. "Sleep tight. It's a long journey to Orynth."

In the back of Syeira's mind, she could almost hear a low, lovely woman's laugh, rough but delicate.

She had never heard it before in her life.

" _Oh, for he was a handsome lad, and her manners were oh-so-bad…"_

* * *

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	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Here's an update of chapter 4 (which turned out to be a surprisingly difficult chapter to write). I'm on break now (MY EXAMS ARE OVER! FREEDOM!), so I should post pretty regularly and quickly... at least, until my crazy family descends on my house, that is. Yikes. Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter. You guys are the BEST! There'll be a thank-you list at the end of the chapter, as per usual.**

 **Hope you guys enjoy! And the next chapter will have... Um... Developments. :) I'll be posting a sneak-peak at the end of this chapter.**

* * *

CHAPTER 4

Sleep came slowly for Leta that night.

She set her clothes out on the windowsill to dry, wrapping a blanket around her bare body. She had never slept on a bed before—Mohana had taken the only cot in the cabin—and she was wary of the hulking, wooden beast; the tangled covers and blankets and pillows.

Instead, she knelt on the splintery wooden planks before the open window and rested her cheek against the cool frame, gazing out at the quiet night. High above, the constellation of the stag glimmered with faint promise. She traced its form with her index finger.

 _What the hell am I doing?_

She glanced at her clothes and mopped up a drop of water with her fingertip. She stared at it intently, and it floated up, up, on the wind, before releasing it. It dropped to the ground with a muted _plip_ far below.

She didn't want to be vulnerable, but she couldn't help feeling that she was being naive. Would Lorcan really help her? He'd saved her in the taproom, yes, but why was he helping her now? Because of some superstition about Ashryver eyes?

It wasn't adding up. But then again… Did she have a choice, now that she'd agreed?

Probably not. She was this far in. And what was her alternative, anyway? Tonight had proven that she couldn't manage to function in a small mountain town, let alone a city like Varese. She'd been overwhelmed by the single, somewhat pathetic street splitting the village. There was no way that she'd be able to waltz into Varese with anything less than a mental breakdown.

Lorcan had saved her, she reasoned. He'd helped her unlock some sort of hinge in her chest where magic was concerned. She'd cooperate with him—tell him what he wanted to know, do her best to aid him with what little she could offer.

But she'd watch her back. That much was certain.

* * *

The sky was just beginning to lighten from cerulean to periwinkle when someone slammed into her room, snarled, and barked, " _Get up."_

She lifted her cheek from where it was pressed against the windowsill. She'd fallen asleep there the night before, watching the stars.

It took her a moment to realize there was a six-foot-five Fae was standing above her with a look of disgust on his face.

"Good morning to you too, Lorcan," she said, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms.

He curled his lip. "Why are you on the floor?"

"I fell asleep here," she said, stifling a yawn.

"Well, get up," he said. "We're leaving in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes? What's the rush?"

"I'd like to avoid another confrontation downstairs, if possible," he said. "And then I'd like for you to answer some of my questions."

 _Go on,_ she told herself. _Play along, but be careful._

She fingered her clothes. They had mostly dried, though the cloth was a bit damp. She sighed. "Alright. Get out so I can change, please."

He turned on his heel, closing the door behind him so hard that the frame rattled.

Leta got to her feet and began dressing, pulling her slightly-soggy tunic and trousers on. A spattered, grimy mirror sat on a vanity, and she peered at her reflection with a downward twist of her lips. She was a mess—her silver hair was matted and tangled, and there were scars and crushed-violet bruises peppered all along her skin.

She stared for a moment at her bloodshot eyes: solid blocks of turquoise ringed with metallic gold. Ashryver eyes, or so Lorcan claimed.

He could be lying, she realized, and she wouldn't even know it.

With a sigh, she splashed cool water on her face to wake her up. As her nose dripped sweat and dirt into the wooden bowl, she couldn't help feeling a faint sense of foreboding curling in her stomach, twisting and unfurling like an asp.

Lorcan marched them through the town, barely beginning to stir. Smoke curled from stout chimneys, and the scent of fresh, baking bread lingered on the air, tossed by the morning breeze.

He led her back to the forest, ascending the now-marshy incline with ease. Leta followed in his footsteps, struggling to keep up. Her muscles were crying out in pain from the strain of the past few days, wincing and grimacing with each step that she took.

Finally, Lorcan stopped, leaning against a trunk. He cocked his head, listening for a moment, and then relaxed.

"Why all the rush?" asked Leta.

"Those men might have tried to follow us," he said. "I wouldn't have minded teaching them a lesson, but I need to keep a low profile, especially in these mountains."

"Why?"

"I'll be the one asking the questions," he said, frowning faintly.

Leta pressed her lips together. _Play along. Don't rile him up—that won't end well for either of you. Don't lose control._ "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"For one," Lorcan said, "why do you smell of Ironteeth?"

Ah. So _those_ were the kind of questions he'd be asking. Of course.

"I was raised by one."

His eyebrows shot up. "I thought you said you were from the east. Ironteeth witches are from western Erilea."

"I know," she said. "She was in exile—she'd killed one of her own kind, a long time ago. Maybe even centuries. She found me when I was a baby. I'd been abandoned on the side of the road, and she kept me around to do her dirty work. I only got away a few days ago."

Lorcan rubbed his chin. "That's not true."

She blinked. "Yes, it is. Why would I lie about when I got away?"

"No, not about that. About how she found you," he said, tapping his eyes. "Remember your heritage, little Fae. No one abandoned a baby with those eyes on the side of the road. No—I'm willing to bet just about anything you were placed there."

"You're crazy," she said. "Why would someone place me in her house? She was a lunatic! I wasn't her ward so much as her slave!"

"Better her slave than someone else's," Lorcan muttered.

She snorted. "Who could possibly be worse than a witch with centuries of suppressed rage and frustration?"

"Pray you never have to find out."

She stamped her foot in one of the silty puddles made by her outburst, the water splashing her calves. "I'm telling you, Mohana wouldn't have made a bargain with anyone. She was a mean old hag."

"Did anyone ever visit the two of you? Anyone at all?"

"Nobody was around for miles," she said. "You think this is secluded, here? This is a metropolis compared to where I lived."

His eyes narrowed. "Big words for a no-name slave."

"I read a lot," she snapped.

"How the hell did you learn how to read?"

"From a traveling merchant," she said. "I had him teach me in exchange for healing his hand. Half of it had been bitten off by some beast in the mountains."

"And your witch didn't whip you half to death for it?"

"Oh, she did when she found out," Leta said, eyes going cold at the memory. "I still have the scars on my back. But it was worth it—every gods-damned hand that bitch laid on me was worth it."

Lorcan's mouth tipped up. Something flickered in his smile, as if he almost… approved. As if he gave a nod to her anger and fury and brokenness. Maybe he, too, had scars inside and out. Maybe his heart was just as lacerated as hers.

"Traveling merchants," he said, breaking the momentary bond that had flickered between them. "And no one else? Not ever?"

Almost unbidden, a long-forgotten memory rose in her, submerged in a pool of thoughts. She hesitated.

Lorcan pounced. "Who? When?"

"It's nothing," she said. "Just another merchant, most likely."

"Describe him."

She nearly growled, but stuffed it back down. _Play along. Get him to trust you. Then find out his endgame._

"It was long ago," she said. "Years. He was… I think it was…" She rubbed her arms to ease the chill that had sunken into her bones. "A man with golden hair, black eyes." Lorcan went deathly still. "He was talking to Mohana about something, I don't remember. I couldn't have been more than six. He saw me first, and looked at me so strangely… As if he _knew_ me, somehow. And then… and then I think I remember him telling me that he was sorry."

"Sorry?" Lorcan whispered.

"Yes. And then he… disappeared, somehow; almost as if he'd teleported. I don't know." She shook her head. "Probably brain damage. Mohana smacked my head so hard against a wall that I was out for a day and a half."

"It isn't brain damage," he said, putting his head in his hands. "Oh, my gods." His voice had turned hoarse, and his shoulders were trembling.

"What?"

Just as fast as he'd changed, he snapped back into place. He straightened, squaring his shoulders. "You're going to lead me back to that cabin."

Leta stiffened. "What? No. Absolutely not."

"You have to," Lorcan said. "I have some questions I need to ask this witch of yours."

She felt all the blood drain from her face. "You can't. Please, Lorcan. Don't make me do this. Don't do this to yourself."

"Leta," he said gently—so gently that it startled her. The softness sounded odd, coming from this harsh, hulking brute. "Look at me. I promise you—I _promise you_ —that I won't let her lay another hand on you. I swear it on my life."

She swallowed, taking a step back. "Why would you do that?"

"I have my own reasons," he told her, his face suddenly old and wearied. "There are… Debts that need to be repaid. Things that I owe certain people."

"Owe?"

"I have done some horrible things in my life," he said. "And when this is all over, someday you may hate me even more than you do right now. But that's alright. I don't need you to like me, and I don't need you to trust every word that comes out of my mouth. I just need you to trust that when I make a promise, I keep it, no matter the cost."

She stared at him for a long time. "You promise?" she said, and her voice cracked. _Weak. Weak, weak, weak, weak, weak._

"I do."

She rubbed her forehead and raked a hand through her hair, gripping a tree branch for support. "It'll take four days. I made it in three, but I was sprinting for the first two, and my body won't allow me to do that again."

His lips twitched. "Of course."

"And on the way…" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and realized that her hands were shaking. "On the way you teach me how to do magic, or whatever it is that I can do. That's our bargain."

"Fair enough." He turned toward the looming shape of the mountains, snowy-capped and gray. He swept a hand before him. "Lead the way. We leave now."

* * *

They made camp that night on the banks of a river. Lorcan disappeared for a few moments, leaving Leta to pitch his tent, and returned with a fat rabbit, already skinned. He made a fire with a few bits of flint left in his bag and put the rabbit on a makeshift spit, the air filling with the sound of crackling and snapping fat.

"The first thing you need to know about magic," Lorcan said, turning the rabbit over the fire, "is that it's all about control and limitations."

She sat quietly, her hands clasped in her lap.

"Not every Fae has magic," he continued. "More often than not, demi-Fae—half-Fae, half-humans—don't have any supernatural strengths at all. Or if they do, it's barely anything. A smidge of keener sight or hearing, that kind of thing."

Leta rubbed her hands before the fire, listening intently.

"All Fae have super-strength, and our senses are elevated," he said. "Most have some healing ability, though like everything else, the strength depends on the Fae."

"And what about the elemental gifts?" she asked.

"There are four elements," Lorcan said. "Fire, water, earth, and air. Many Fae have some gift with earth. Air, fire, and water are much, much rarer. There are other gifts, too; one-of-a-kind. It happens that way sometimes."

"Why?" she asked.

"Nobody really knows," he said. "The world is infinite, Leta. To the east of these mountains"—he extended a massive hand to the right—"is the realm of the Fae: Doranelle. But if you go further east, you can find other continents, other countries, all with their unique peoples and rules. I've conquered some of them. I've heard legends of another country populated with creatures called Fae; the same name as us, but not the same at all. They say the northern half of the country is split into courts, and each court is named for a different season or time of day. There's the Spring Court, the Summer Court; even the Night Court."

Leta's eyes were wide. "Surely that's just rumor and hearsay."

"Maybe," Lorcan said with a shrug. "Maybe not. Wendlyn is just the beginning. To the west is Erilea, to the southwest the Southern Continent and the city of Torre Cesme. And to the east… Who knows? Maybe that realm of courts really does exist within the bounds of our world."

"And why do the boundaries of the world matter?" Leta asked. "What does that have to do with me?"

"It has to do with what you are," Lorcan said. "In order to have full control over your power, you first have to face yourself fully. You have to absorb yourself and all your facets, faults and strengths. There is a well of power within every Fae. For some, it's nothing more than a drop; for others, it's an ocean. I've met people that could encase themselves in an element for days without tiring."

"Impossible."

"No such thing," he said. "You've got power with water, according to you. Maybe you also have other elements; I don't know. But we're going to start there."

Leta shivered, rubbing her arms up and down. Goosebumps had pebbled on her skin. "How?"

"I can't _make_ you face your power," he said. "That has to be something you do for yourself. But there are ways that I can open up the path to make it easier for you."

"Such as…?"

"Such as," Lorcan said, "shifting."

She blinked. "Shifting?"

"Purebred Fae all have an animal form that they can shift into," said Lorcan. "I've known Fae that shift into hawks, cats, wolves. I once knew a female whose animal form was a human."

Leta furrowed her brows, trying to allow this to sink in. "What's yours?"

"I don't have one."

"I thought you said all purebred—"

"I am not a purebred," he said, something flashing in his eyes. "I'm a demi-Fae. Maybe the most powerful demi-Fae in the world, but a demi-Fae all the same."

"I'm… sorry," she stammered. "I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter. Right now, I want you to focus on shifting. Considering your confusion, I'm assuming you've never done it before."

She shook her head. "No. I didn't even know it was possible."

"It is," said Lorcan. "I've never done it myself, but I've heard it described as… Pins and needles on the skin. Rippling. Changing." He lounged back. "Try it."

"T-try it?" she sputtered. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," he said. "I can tell you the basics, but this has to be something you figure out for yourself."

"How do you know I _am_ a purebred Fae?"

"I don't. I'm guessing. But," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I am a very, very good guesser."

Leta huffed, but deep inside her, some kind of primal instinct was curious. If every Fae had an animal form, what was hers? Human, like the woman Lorcan had mentioned? A mountain cat?

She imagined pins and needles sliding over her skin—slipping, digging into her pores. She shut her eyes, balling her hands into fists. _Shift,_ she commanded herself inwardly. _Shift, shift, shift…_

Lorcan burst into laughter.

She opened her eyes and scowled. "What?"

"You looked as if you'd just swallowed a frog," Lorcan snickered. "However it's done, it's not supposed to work like that."

Leta glared at him. "Prick."

"Here," Lorcan said, taking the rabbit off of the spit. It was done cooking, turned a crispy brown. He handed her a thigh. "Eat. Work on it for the next couple of days. It'll take time, Leta. Magic doesn't come easily."

"More's the pity," she muttered, gnawing into the meat.

"No," Lorcan said, sobering. "Don't ever wish that. We've got enough problems with hard magic as it is."

* * *

Leta did as Lorcan suggested. Over the next few days, as they walked through the mountains, she dug deep inside of her for that well of power. She imagined her bones melding—fissuring; breaking, shifting. But she didn't succeed.

At least it was a distraction from what lay ahead.

The days passed in a haze of autumn sunlight and magic. During the day, they trekked up and down hills, through valleys and ditches, even occasionally scaling cliff faces. Lorcan set a brutal pace, and he didn't allow her anytime for solitude or idle thoughts. It was always _go, go, go, walk, walk, walk._

In the evenings, when Leta's muscles were barking and screaming, Lorcan found someplace for them to halt at, and he taught her a little of how to control her magic. It was painful, and slow, but she was determined. Soon she knew how to keep her magic under control when her feelings became strong, and how to raise concentrated amounts of water into the air. Lorcan promised her that he'd teach her how to make animals out of the water, and how to call down rain from the sky.

Around noontime of the fourth day, they approached the cabin, approached woods that she knew, familiar streams and trees.

Something prickled on the back of her neck, and she halted. Lorcan continued to mount the hill he was climbing. "Come on," he barked. "Don't stop now."

She shook her head. "Something's… not right," she whispered.

Lorcan's head snapped over. "What?"

"I can't explain it. There's some instinct… It's…" She shivered. "Something's not right here."

Lorcan's eyes flicked back to the direction of the cabin. "We can't turn back."

"I-I know," she said. "I just…"

"Come on," he said, already moving on. "We'll be there soon. I promised, Leta, remember?"

She wanted to tell him that that wasn't what she was worried about, but didn't. She kept her mouth shut.

But the closer they got, the more the feeling of unease intensified. It took Leta a moment, but she realized that the nearer they got to the cabin, the quieter the woods became. The birds stopped chirping; the deer and rabbits froze in the underbrush. The forest had hushed, as if it were waiting for something—someone. It was almost apprehensive.

"Lorcan," Leta said again. "I don't think—"

And then they cleared the trees, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

The little cabin's clearing was in ruins.

Ashes smoldered and smoked on the ground, curling up in gray, wispy plumes. The cabin itself was wrecked; burned and blistered. There was nothing but a heap of ashes and chars where her home had once been. Even the pigpen and chicken coop out front were tattered and razed. There was no sign of the animals anywhere.

In the middle of the clearing, a wooden board had been shoved into the ground. Makeshift, clearly, but it did its job.

Mohana's body was nailed onto it.

She was extended spread-eagle over the wood, her head hanging low, her tongue lolling from her mouth. Rusty, iron nails had been hammered through her arms and legs. Her white hair hung in ruined tatters, and her skin was marred and bloated. Flies buzzed around her dead body, humming faintly. Her skin was crusted.

Written on the board in caked, dried blue blood, was a single sentence:

 _We are looking for you._

Leta stumbled back, her heart in her throat. Lorcan cursed.

She crept through the wreckage. There, to her right—that was a bit of the carpet she had once slept on. And there, before her feet, was a page of a book, so sooty that Leta could not make out the words.

"Gods," Lorcan murmured. "What _happened_ here?" He turned to her, expression almost accusatory. "Is there something you're not telling me? Because if so, Leta, now would be the time to—"

He froze.

Lifted his nose to the air.

Sniffed.

Horror—such pure, unadulterated horror that it made Leta recoil—filled his eyes.

"Shit," he said. His voice turned low, urgent, and he grabbed her arm. "Shift. Now."

"I-I can't," she stammered. "I can't shift. I don't know how."

" _Do it,"_ Lorcan hissed. " _Your life depends on it. Shift now."_

And then, so suddenly that she didn't even have time to open her mouth to reply, he shoved her behind his back, his hand on the sword at his waist.

Leta noticed what she had not seen before. There was a form in the shadows, in the copse of trees off to her left. It began to emerge, stepping out easily, delicately.

It was the form of a woman, and when she came into the light, Leta caught her breath.

 _Run._

That was the first thought, the first instinct, that popped into her head.

The woman was beautiful—slender and slim and pointed and sharp, her ears and teeth marking her as one of the Fae. She was ancient: ancient and hard and lethal.

She knew immediately that this woman was not her friend.

"Hello, Lorcan," she purred. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Lorcan swallowed, hard. It was the first time Leta had ever seen him afraid. Shocked, yes. But _afraid_?

"Hello, Maeve," he said.

* * *

 **A/N: Cliffhanger! ;)**

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	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'm back, as promised. Thank you to everyone who reviewed. You guys are the BEST!** **This chapter is a bit shorter, but it's... dramatic. Enjoy. :)**

* * *

CHAPTER 5

The name sent a warning bell clanging through Leta's head.

 _Maeve._ It dredged up a sense of horror, of darkness, of feelings long-forgotten and newly remembered. She shivered, edging further behind Lorcan, her stomach twisting and teasing and pulling like bread dough.

"Lorcan, darling," Maeve said, smiling wolfishly. "It's been, what… Fifteen years? Sixteen?"

He growled. His whole body vibrated with the sound, muscles rippling. "What are you doing here?"

"I think you already know," she said. She knelt and picked up a handful of ash, rubbing it between her fingertips. The chars scattered on the wind. "I have to say, I'm a little impressed that you found her at all. And pleased that you brought her right to me."

"I did no such thing."

"Didn't you?" She flicked her fingers lazily, and Lorcan was swept aside as if by a huge gust of wind, his back colliding painfully with a tree trunk with a muffled _oomph._

Leta remained where she stood, shivering and wide-eyed, biting back a scream.

Maeve took one long, languid step toward her, hooking her fingers underneath Leta's chin. Her lip curled. "You look so like your father," she murmured. "And it's not just the hair. I can see his essence in your chest—patient, but strong. Powerful… lethal, if given proper… _instruction._ "

"Get away from her," Lorcan wheezed from the tree.

Leta's heart had stopped in her chest. "What… What did you just say?" she whispered. "About my…"

"Your father, yes," Maeve said, nodding. "The most powerful pure-blooded Fae alive."

 _Impossible. Impossible, impossible, impossible._

"Liar," Leta said hoarsely.

"No." Maeve glanced over at Lorcan, still huddled at the base of the tree. "Such a pity, him. He was a fine tool once, but now he's nothing more than a thorn in my side."

The words struck something in Leta's chest. She was so fragile, already so close to snapping and breaking free of what remained of her tattered restraints. Maeve seemed to guess this, and she bared her teeth at Leta. "Oh? Did I sit a soft spot there, darling?" She laughed with cruel, wicked delight. "Did I tell you how your mother screamed when I took her away? In the first few days, she wouldn't scream at all, of course. But when the fever set in, and the hallucinations came… Well. Then she screamed. And do you know what she wailed?"

Leta couldn't breathe.

"Your father's name. Over and over and over again."

Something inside of her snapped.

It took her a moment before she realized it was the shackles.

All her life, there had been something wrapped around her magic, holding it in place, tethering both it and her to the ground. And at that moment, listening to those words— _your father's name, over and over and over again_ —it caved.

Hell hath no fury like her.

She let out a fierce, low, rumbling snarl, raising her right hand.

 _Crack._

The earth cleaved beneath them: a deep line shot up through the ashes, maybe a foot wide, opening down, down, down. Leta didn't know how deep or far it went, and she didn't particularly care.

She knew two things: one, that the crack had hit a river far below the earth, and two, that it went directly between Maeve's legs.

Leta didn't think. She didn't hesitate, or notice that Maeve's hold on Lorcan had broken, and the Fae warrior had shot to his feet.

She reached down into that river, down thousands upon thousands of feet, and dredged the water up to the surface. It shot up around her: water, endless water, shimmering and shaking with her fury, trembling and bucking beneath the force of her brokenness.

"You made a big mistake that day you chose him instead," Lorcan said, and Leta let loose.

Water crashed down on Maeve, but the Fae had grown taller, somehow, her violet irises shining like beacons in the clearing of smoke, and she only laughed as she sent a wave of darkness for them.

Leta did not keel. She did not break.

Instead, she set the water on fire.

* * *

Whatever Lorcan had been expecting, it was not this.

It was not for the water to glow silver: it was not for Leta herself to turn silver, for a wind to circle at her feet, some kind of vicious cyclone.

It took a moment for him to realize she had turned the water to fire. No, that was not quite right—she had _set the water on fire._ This was not normal fire, fire that burned red and gold. This was fire that burned pewter, breathing with an old, ancient wind that Lorcan knew in his bones.

Rowan and Aelin had been fools. Such fools not to know what kind of consequences there might be if this kind of power leapt free.

Fenrys had been a fool, too. Leta had grown up tempered and beaten, and he knew—knew from experience so shattering that it still ate at his chest—that there was nothing that could bring her back down.

Control, he'd said. Limitations.

Now, he almost laughed.

Maeve and Leta converged—two powers beating at each other, breaking, cresting. He had to duck away as the silver met the black, the two swirling together, water and wind and fury and immortal rage. Leta roared, throwing her head back into the sky, fangs shining hard and shiny and white as pearls.

Maeve shrieked right back— _shrieked,_ but not in terror. No—this was bliss. This was some sort of awful, twisted bliss.

Leta opened her arms wide. More and more water was being brought up from the surface. If this ended without the world blasting to smithereens, Lorcan would have to run like hell and scale a tree like a gods-damned chipmunk.

But he couldn't tear himself away. Couldn't bring himself to turn his back, not now.

Part of it was that he enjoyed the fight, relished in the blood dripping, in Hellas's own chaos rippling beneath the earth's tender skin.

And part of it was that he could not turn his back on Rowan's daughter.

* * *

Leta had never been so happy in her life.

And as she let loose another roar, this one coming from deep, deep inside of her, as she sent her power flying not only toward that woman but toward the world, she realized that she was also weeping.

Weeping with joy.

* * *

Far, far away, across a continent and a half and an ocean besides, Dorian Havilliard woke in his bed with a start.

Manon stirred beside him, her lamplike eyes fluttering open. She stiffened.

They both felt it: power, sending not a wavelet but a tsunami through the world. Shifting everything—their very bones, the foundations of the stone castle, the slumbering beasts that lay beneath the earth in wait.

"What," Manon said, lucid and clear and sharp, "the _hell_ was that?"

It came again, and again, sending bolts of power through the world. It felt familiar to Dorian, so inherently familiar to him that for a second, the wind was knocked out of his chest.

Once, long ago, he had stood hand-in-hand with Aelin Galathynius and brought down a castle.

Once, long ago, he had stood hand-in-hand with Rowan Galathynius and brought down an empire.

Dorian turned to Manon, his face gone bone-white, and cursed loudly enough to wake the dead.

* * *

North and slightly east, Aedion Ashryver jerked upright in his chair. His glass of whiskey dropped to the floor and shattered.

His desk seemed to tremble—the floor seemed to rumble. The fabric of the world was _struck,_ as if by a heavy, infinite hammer. Struck again and again and again.

The Fae side of him—the side that felt danger not as a tangible source feet away, but as a prickling sensation on the back of his neck from miles off—knew this feeling.

He knew it, because he had once sworn and failed to protect a queen that had done the same thing. But not like this.

This was striking the fabric of the world not to alter it, to temper it, to steel it, but to _break_ it.

Footsteps sounded outside the hall, and Lysandra came bursting into his room, ashen.

"Did you feel that?" she whispered.

He could barely nod.

This was Aelin… But it was not Aelin. This was her, but something—someone—slightly different.

"Oh, my gods," Aedion croaked.

* * *

In their beds at Rifthold and on the road to Orynth, each Crochan-Havilliard child woke.

They felt it. They felt it because this was a power that called to them, reconciled with them. This was another power like theirs: a merged bond of two other powers that should never have brought together, a power so great that it should never have been formed.

Syeira Crochan-Havilliard looked up at the ceiling and smiled.

Orion snapped his iron claws and teeth into place.

Calynn stretched languidly.

And Bevyn—young, innocent, seven-year-old Bevyn—let out a fresh peal of laughter.

* * *

Gavriel was standing in a greasy, messy disaster of a pub in Varese when he felt it.

Every inch of his body became alert—wakened to this new sense of power.

He turned his head toward where the Cambrians lay on the horizon, shifted, and began to run.

* * *

Fenrys was chained to the wall. He could taste blood in his mouth, bitter and metallic.

He felt her. He felt her because he'd known, all those years ago, even if he was the only one.

"I'm sorry," he said.

The world turned to black.

* * *

Leta burned and drowned and burned and drowned and burned and drowned and

* * *

Rowan never slept anymore. He was always awake: always awake and breathing, even when every breath he took felt like treason. He was sitting on the chair in the corner of his room, his head in his hands, because from the moment he had taken one last long look at this room, at that bed, he had known that he would not be sleeping in it without her.

And then he felt it.

He knew it. Gods. He knew it.

He knew it because of Aelin, and he knew it because of him. He knew it because it was a convergence of the two powers he knew best in the world—the two cores he knew best in the world.

He screamed: for her, and how badly, how devastatingly, he had failed her; for the country he was trying so hard to set to rights _because she had shackled him to it even when she knew it would kill him_ ; for him, for how cracked, how _shattered,_ he was inside.

Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius roared in tandem with the bellow across the ocean, and together, they rattled the stars.

* * *

She was shaking.

She had tried so hard. She had fought _so hard_ for him and for her—she had not dared to hope, even when the female that had taken _everything_ from her had spat in her face and told her…

"My girl," Aelin whispered, and those two words, so simple, so base, ignited a secret spark inside her chest.

* * *

Kasper could not do much.

Kasper could never do much.

But he did what he could—offered her what little he could give her.

He answered.

* * *

Lorcan felt another tremor… Smaller, as if it had been subdued, but enough to give a reply to the question he'd more or less known already.

They were all so unbelievably fucked.

* * *

Leta felt the power thrumming in her veins. She heard it singing to her in tongues long-forgotten, long-buried, long-gone.

Maeve had gone white as the valley lilies that bloomed in spring.

Behind her, Lorcan was howling with laughter. "You've written your own gods-damned death sentence," he cried, flush with glee. "You've done it this time. You wanted to play with fire, Maeve? Here's a tip: _don't fuck with the most powerful people on earth, because sooner or later, they'll end up outnumbering you._ "

There was a bright flash of light, and the wave of darkness disappeared. High, high into the air, a barn owl swirled, flapping its wings and hauling ass as if there was no tomorrow.

Leta smiled wickedly.

And, as if she had known how to do it all along, she shifted.

* * *

Lorcan didn't know why he was surprised.

Leta's animal form was a condor: but not a small condor. No. Leta was a twelve-foot-long condor, her wings silver, her eyes that same blue-gold mix.

She didn't chase after Maeve. Lorcan watched as Leta sent a shrill caw through the mountains, echoing and reverberating with force. She raised her wings, soaring up, up…

And released her power. She didn't tamper it back down, or let it slowly extinguish. She just let it go, like string spooling from her fingertips.

Lorcan swore, already banking for a tree, ready to scramble up, but before he could, he was lifted by some force of invisible wind, levitating him high above the ground.

The otherworldly silver fire went out without Leta's concentration, and the water crashed down, slipping and sliding over the mountains. The force of the other night times ten—no, times a thousand. He'd never seen something like this.

He was going to hunt down Aelin and Rowan and rip them apart limb-by-limb for unleashing a force like this on the world.

The water formed an ocean, briefly, before sinking back into the ground, stilling. When the clearing settled again, the river draining into the crack Leta had made in the world, the witch's body was gone.

The wind cushioning and protecting Lorcan evaporated, and he tumbled to the ground with a splash.

* * *

Leta was conscious that she was back in her Fae form, and that she was falling.

She didn't care. She didn't care about anything anymore.

 _So this is who I am._

 _So this is what I can do._

Who the hell cared?

* * *

Lorcan caught her a millisecond before she fell.

The sheer force of her slammed into him, but he was five centuries old, for gods' sake, and he could hold his ground.

She was unconscious but breathing, and he could feel, _sense,_ that her exhaustion was of shock, not weariness. There was more inside of her—more power, just gleaming beneath the surface.

 _I am going to rip Aelin and Rowan apart._

He didn't think twice. He slung her over his shoulder and started for a rocky incline, on an untouched grassy bank high up on the cliff face. It wasn't difficult for him to scale, even with Leta on his back.

He had half a mind to stick her in a pair of iron handcuffs.

He set her down on the overhang none-too-gently, cursing emphatically.

"Bitch," he snarled. "Fire-breathing _bitch._ "

She didn't so much as stir.

He knew that there was going to be hell in the morning. Leta had unwittingly sent out a signal over the mountains, and Lorcan knew that even now, Manon and Dorian were probably pitching a hissy fit in Adarlan, Aedion and Lysandra were likely wetting their pants, and Rowan…

Oh, gods. There were more. Fenrys and Gavriel and Vaughan and…

And Erawan.

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit._

"I hate you," Lorcan informed Leta matter-of-factly.

She didn't stir.

 _Fire-breathing bitch._

* * *

 **A/N: As promised, there was a Rowan appearance. :)**

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	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! Or, if you don't celebrate Christmas, happy holidays. ;) Here's chapter 6. Unfortunately, it's more of a transition chapter (it kind of had to be, after the, erm, _action_ of the last one) but I still had fun with it. :) Thank you SO MUCH to all the reviewers... I'm writing this story for you. **

**P.S.: I got the ToG coloring book for Christmas, and I'm SO excited! Squee! :)**

* * *

CHAPTER 6

When Syeira woke the next morning, she had the strange feeling that everything had somehow changed.

Huddled on a creaky mattress in a second-rate inn, clutching a blanket to her chest, she furrowed her brow and lifted her head. The world felt different. The air cushioning her body and filling her lungs had become foreign, alien; new and otherworldly. The sunshine streaming in through the windows felt peculiar brushing along her skin.

And then she remembered the bizarre pulse of power she had felt the night before.

She sat up in bed, shifting her creaky, weary, travel-bruised bones. She wished that she were at home, with her brothers and sisters sleeping feet away. She wished that she were in her own bed, not this lumpy, scratchy mess. She wished that Raiden was beside her, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling.

She'd never told anyone, not even Rai, but the nights that they'd accidentally fallen asleep beside each other—because they were drunk, because they were tired, or, that one time, strung-out on opium from the slums—were her favorites.

Syeira felt lonely, even back home. She felt burdened by the knowledge that she would never be Manon or Dorian. She would never be some great ruler—it was something instinctive, something reverberating in her chest. She just _knew._

And yes, she had a while still. Her father was mortal, but her mother was not. Orion would ascend Adarlan's throne, and Syeira would take the northern half of the Western Wastes, ruling in tandem with the descendants of Ansel, the queen of the southern half. Manon had centuries to rule—thousands, if she so wished.

Even if… Even if Syeira sometimes caught her mother watching Dorian with a sad expression, some sort of heavy-hearted knowledge in her eyes. Even if Syeira suspected that when Dorian's time came, Manon would go with him willingly.

She dragged a hand through her hair, black, knotty curls fisted in her fingers. She was a wicked-tongued smart aleck of a princess. She was not a warrior queen.

She wondered what that power had been—where it came from; what it meant, if it had been there at all. She hadn't had another hallucination since the snake in the corner of the carriage, but she couldn't forget it, or the phantom voice that haunted her day and night. _Find the wolf._

More than anything else, she wished that she could ask her parents, if only to quell that awful, horrible seed of fear that had taken root in her chest.

—

They had been traveling for weeks now. The days had blurred together in a haze of autumn sunlight and rumbling wheels, shimmering and shifting and melding.

They'd long since passed into Terrasen. It was colder than Syeira remembered, already slick with frost and ice even in early autumn. The trees were shedding their leaves precipitously, the deluge of clementines and crimsons turned to a brown mash on the roads. She'd lost count of the amount of times that the carriage had skidded over the path due to patches of glistening ice.

And the citizens of the country—well. Syeira had been away for a long while.

She supposed it made sense. Her parents had told her, more or less, in broken snippets and fragments, what had happened that day on the beach—how Maeve, queen of the Fae in Wendlyn, had snatched Aelin Galathynius and spirited her away. How centuries-old warriors had looked and looked for Aelin after the war, and how they had not managed to find her, because Maeve—invincible, cruel, Maeve—had gone into hiding.

During the war, while Erilea was busy fighting Erawan's forces, Maeve had sent a purge through Doranelle, the realm of the Fae. She'd targeted the Whitethorns, the family of King Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius. Much of the ancient family had managed to flee—most of them to Terrasen, where Rowan had promised them safety even in war-torn times—but many were felled by Maeve.

The residents of Doranelle had not taken kindly to animal slaughter. Maeve had done away with many of the members of her cadre—good, loyal, honest Fae. Her true colors of deceit and inhumanity had begun to bleed through her veil of satin and whispered lies.

And just as the residents of Doranelle were rallying for a fight, just as they were preparing to begin a war that would last not decades but centuries, perhaps even millennia, Erawan had gone into hiding.

Rowan had sent Maeve a message—he was going to rally an army, whatever it cost him, whatever it took, and he was going to storm her city and make her pay.

He promised her— _promised_ , with a blood vow—that he would not rest until she was nothing but a murmur of ashes on the wind and Aelin Galathynius was back home.

Syeira supposed that Maeve had weighed her odds… Weighed, and run like hell.

Nobody knew where Maeve went. People had searched, were still searching, but there were so many places where the queen could've gone. Syeira had, more or less, gathered that this was a very long, very dangerous game that the immortals were playing.

Because Rowan, Aelin, Maeve, and the other members of the legendary cadre, both former and current?

They weren't going anywhere. Syeira's father had been right. Sooner or later, when Terrasen had stabilized, Rowan would go looking for Aelin. He would continue to search for her until he was dead or she was found. There was, Syeira had gathered, no other outcome.

So it didn't surprise her too much when she stopped at inns or small towns for the night and she caught glimpses of Fae roaming the streets, old and powerful and lethal. King Rowan had offered his kind asylum in the country of pine and snow.

This was a different kind of country, she was gathering. This was a place somewhere in-between the timeworn myths and legends of the Crochan Kingdom and the relatively new laws and orders of Rifthold.

This was a place ruled by a Fae known not for his mercy but for his ruthlessness—and yet, Syeira had a sneaking suspicion that the people of Terrasen would fall on their swords for their ruler without provocation.

Interesting.

For a smart-aleck princess carrying her slippery hallucinations and her heart in a glass jar, it was something to consider when the carriage finally pulled her through the gates of Orynth.

—

Her maid—a plump, irritating girl named Dellie—informed Syeira that morning that they were likely only a day and a half from the capital.

Syeira blinked, startled, as she climbed into the carriage. "Only a day and a half?"

Dellie nodded, picking up her stitching and smoothing it out on her lap. "I s'ppose so."

Syeira didn't know how to react to this information. She felt exhausted, plagued by worries of her own declining sanity and the strong lightning bolt of power she'd felt the night before.

Gods knew what Rowan would do with Syeira when she got there. If she weren't feeling so beaten down, she might give him a run for his money, but… Well. He'd probably eat her alive, if the stories she'd heard about him were true.

She gave Dellie a thoughtful look. In the weeks trapped in the carriage with her maid, Syeira had figured out a few things about Dellie—for instance, that she had no shortage of maudlin folk songs she enjoyed singing as she sewed, all of them equally dreadful, usually involving lost love or death, oftentimes both.

Sometimes Syeira thought her parents had chosen Dellie to accompany her as punishment.

But more even than her impressive (read: horrifying) repertoire of songs, Dellie lived for _gossip._ Pure, unadulterated gossip. Syeira was relatively certain that Dellie knew more about the monarchs of Erilea than she did.

If there was any last knowledge to be gleaned about Rowan, now was the time to get it.

"So," Syeira said casually. "Do you have any family in Terrasen?"

"Oh, aye," Dellie replied. "My sister married a boy from Suria—they work at the castle in Orynth now. I've got six nieces and nephews there." She lifted her stitching, demonstrating the purple flowers embroidered along the edge.. "I'm making the youngest a tablecloth for his birthday."

"You're making a little boy a tablecloth?" Syeira said. "Really?"

"Mm," said Dellie. The maid, it seemed, had gotten used to Syeira's blunt, big mouth. "Don't you worry, Highness. He'll love it."

"If you say so," Syeira said, but cleared her throat. Dellie's gift choices weren't her business, questionable as they might be. "So. You said they work at the castle?"

"That's right."

"Do they have any stories about living there?"

"Oh, yes," Dellie said, her eyes brightening. "My sister says the castle in Orynth is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen—she says that the king made a whole wing of ice, and—"

"A whole wing of ice?" said Syeira. "You mean—half of the castle is made of _ice_?"

"I don't know if it's _made_ of ice so much as decorated with it," said Dellie. "My sister says it's been magicked to snow indoors, and there are these lovely sculptures all over the place. She says the new throne room has a whole ice pond in it, and all the little lords and ladies go skating—"

"A throne room," Syeira repeated. "With an ice pond."

"The king's got quite a bit of magic," Dellie affirmed. "It seems he uses a bit for reparations and the like." She dropped her stitching and pressed a hand to her mouth. "Oh! I almost forgot. My sister sent me a letter with the saddest story I ever saw the other day. It'll just break your heart."

"What do you mean?" Syeira said, frowning.

"Well," said Dellie, picking up her stitching and sticking the fabric with short, energetic little bursts, "it seems that the old queen—Aelin—was awful fond of reading. And of course the old library got wrecked when the city was sacked."

Syeira felt a tug of guilt for her ancestor's actions. "Right."

"So the king," Dellie continued, "decided to build a whole new one—said he was going to make it the best library the world has ever seen. All in honor of her. My sister said he's even going to name it after the queen. _The Aelin Galathynius Library,_ or something of that sort."

"Oh," Syeira said quietly.

"But here's the real sad part," Dellie said. "The king won't even go near the library, not no more. My sister said a friend of hers saw him walking through the library once, just when they'd started building it, and he just kind of… looked around. For a long while. A couple of servants said he stood there in the library for a whole day staring at everything. Like he expected her to pop out of the bookshelves and smile at him."

Syeira didn't say anything.

For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to lose Raiden—lose him not to death, but to imprisonment. Lose him with the knowledge that he might be out there somewhere, struggling and beaten to a pulp day after day, nothing more than blood and scarred skin.

"They say the king got new tattoos after the war," said Dellie. "Some on his arm—the one that weren't already tattooed, o'course—for all the people that died and the like. But he got another one, too, on his neck. It's awful painful-looking, or so says my sister, wrapped around right like a collar. That one's for the queen."

"Gods," Syeira muttered.

"The king don't even sleep in his bed," Dellie went on, as if she were relishing in these stories. "Rumor is he sleeps in a chair in the corner, because he won't sleep in the bed without her." She stopped sewing, her fingers stilling abruptly. "You ever wonder what that would be like? To love someone that much?"

Syeira didn't move. She didn't nod. Because…

Yes, she loved Raiden. But not like _that._

She didn't want to think about what that meant.

"Yes," she said faintly, and exactly as she did so, a hiss sounded from the corner of the carriage.

Syeira flicked her gaze over, and stilled.

The asp had returned in all its golden-scaled glory.

 _Hello,_ it said in that same, disembodied voice.

It was male, deep; rough. She didn't like it one bit.

 _Get the hell out of my head,_ she snarled.

 _I don't think so._ The snake folded in on itself, peering at her curiously.

 _Who the hell are you?_

 _No one of your concern._ The asp tilted its head, as if he were considering this. It was an oddly human gesture. _At least, not yet._

 _Bullshit._

The snake made a sort of half-hissing, half-laughing sound. _I can tell already that ours will be a beautiful friendship._

Dellie finally seemed to notice that Syeira had gone still and thin-lipped. "Princess? Are you alright?"

 _Friendship? You're just some figment of my imagination._

The asp seemed to sober, and the voice turned from humorous to cold. _No. I'm not._

 _Then what are you? Dellie can't see you, so why can I?_

 _You have a… unique skill set that fits my needs._ The snake almost shrugged, though it ended up looking more like a rippling of scales and fangs more than anything else. _It's a long story, darling, and I don't have much time. It's costing me to be here._

"Princess?"

 _Then don't come. And_ don't _call me darling._

 _Ah-ah-ah,_ the snake said. _Not so fast. I didn't say it's not worth it._

 _Why the hell did you come here?_

 _The power you felt last night was real,_ the snake said. _Depend on it._

 _Why should I listen to you?_

 _Trust. I have a message for you to convey._

"Should I fetch a healer?"

 _Then spit it out,_ Syeira snapped.

 _Get to Rowan Galathynius. Tell him that Aelin of the Wildfire is alive._

She went rigid. _I repeat: who the hell are you?_

The snake ignored the question. _Tell him to find Lorcan Salvaterre. Tell him that his suspicions are correct._

 _What?_

" _Princess,"_ Dellie said, now white-faced.

"Hang on a minute," Syeira snapped, now intently focused on the snake.

 _Tell him that…_ The snake seemed to pause for a minute, as if he were overcome with some sort of emotion. Syeira didn't know what. _Tell him that when he finds Salvaterre… Tell him that she is not the only one._

" _Princess Syeira!"_ Dellie shrieked.

"I'm _right here_!" Syeira shouted, slamming her fist down. "Would you hold on just _one fucking second_?"

Dellie scrambled backwards a bit. "Syeira?" she said, voice trembling.

The snake cocked its head. _Syeira. That's a very beautiful name._

Syeira's head jerked over, and she was about to throttle the asp, figment of her imagination or not, but it was too late. The beast was already gone.

 _Aelin of the Wildfire is alive._

 _Find Lorcan Salvaterre._

 _His suspicions are correct._

 _She is not the only one._

"I'm here, Dellie," Syeira said heavily. "I'm here. I'm sorry."

—

They didn't stop at an inn that night—there were no inns to stop at. The country surrounding Terrasen's capital city was surprisingly widespread, towns spread few and far-between.

Instead, the guards pitched tents, hauling sleeping rolls off the top of the carriage. Syeira was accustomed to travel—her family alternated years in their respective countries, spending one in the Crochan Kingdom for every in Adarlan. She'd spent more nights in tents than she could count. Neither her mother nor her father put up with any high-minded attitudes about luxury.

Syeira remembered one incident from her childhood—she had been ten at the time, and foolish. She'd tried to protest the lack of cushioning.

"I'm a _princess,_ " she'd told her father, stamping her foot. "You're a _king._ We aren't supposed to sleep on the _floor_!"

Her father had kneeled down before her, eyes bright and hard and blue. "You will sleep on the floor," he'd said, " _because_ you are a princess. Learn humility, Syeira. Your people will not respect you if they cannot understand you."

Now, lying on the floor of her own tent, blankets clutched around her shivering body, Syeira felt tears prick her eyes. She missed her father. She was scared—terrified, even, of the visions in her head. She didn't know how much credence to give the asp's words.

Syeira didn't even know who Lorcan Salvaterre _was._ The name rang some distant bell, but he could be some made-up fantasy, for all she knew.

Maybe she was just insane. That'd make a pretty picture—Syeira Crochan-Havilliard, heir to the Crochan Kingdom, completely off her rocker.

She wanted to talk to her father. Before she and Raiden had gotten close, before she'd gotten old and lonely and burdened, her father had been her best friend.

He had been the one, that day the ice had come screaming out of her, ripped from her lungs, to smooth her hair, to make her unafraid. He had been the one to help her come to terms with her power—to teach her to meet it head-on.

Syeira had always thought it was funny that she was the one set to get the Crochan Kingdom, because she had so much more of her father in her than she ever would of her mother. Orion was the one like Manon; all hard edges and brutality.

On some level, Syeira's mother had never really understood her daughter's fear of power. But Dorian? He'd gotten it. He'd known.

Because, as it turned out, Syeira didn't miss Raiden most. She missed him, yes—missed him with an ache in her chest.

But more than anything else in the world, she wanted her family back. She wanted to be six years old again, and she wanted her father to tell her that everything was going to be alright.

Maybe she _was_ just crazy and soft.

—

The guards harnessed the carriage up early the next morning. Even Syeira, with her current lack of time measurement, understood what today was. Even she understood what the looming shadow of the Staghorn Mountains in the distance meant.

Today, they would enter Orynth.

She washed her face as well as she could in a cold freshwater stream, tying her long black hair back with a scrap of cloth. She hardly looked like a princess—she looked like a traveler, worn and wearied by the roads.

As the carriage set off for the city, Syeira gazed out the windows. She looked at the landscape, growing brown with the dawning winter, already dusted with white, at the mountains looming in the distance, at the pine trees jutting up steeply from the ground.

It seemed strange that a country of ice and snow should be the home of a fire queen.

Dellie had overestimated. Within a few hours of setting off, Syeira got the word that they were no more than half an hour outside of the city. She could already see the silhouette of Orynth on the horizon, towering stone buildings and the steep spires of the castle.

"Nervous, Highness?" Dellie asked, still stitching away at her gods-damned tablecloth for her nephew.

Syeira shot the girl a sharp look. "No."

"I would be, if I were meeting the king of Terrasen."

"I've already met him."

This much was true. Syeira had visited his court as a child, and he'd been the commander at Morath besides. She had vague, hazy memories of a white-haired man with a wicked face tattoo striding around the battleground tents in full armor, always armed with at least four swords and more knives than she could count.

Syeira had always been so frightened of him that she'd hid behind her father's legs in his presence. He never smiled, never laughed, never joked.

She had to wonder what kind of person Aelin Galathynius was to make someone like that love them so much.

 _Aelin of the Wildfire is alive._

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, _shit._

"I s'ppose," Dellie said, sounding somewhat unconvinced. "I don't know."

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence, leaving Syeira only more time to ponder the snake's words. _She is not the only one._

"Dellie," Syeira said, "do you know anyone named Lorcan Salvaterre?"

The maid furrowed her brow. "I have a cousin that works at Perranth," she said finally, after a pause. "There have been rumors that a man named Lorcan used to be in love with Lady Elide, but I'm not awful sure. Why?"

Lady Elide. More almost-familiar-but-not-quite names. Syeira was regretting her life decisions now; she'd never paid attention to her tutors and their diagrams of the noble families of every major country.

"Do you know anything more about Lorcan?" Syeira asked.

"Nay," said Dellie, shaking her head. "Can't say that I do. It's been nothing more but whispers. Why?"

Of course. Syeira sighed. "No reason," she said. "Thank you anyway." She shoved the thoughts out of her mind. She couldn't—wouldn't—think about that now.

She curled back the window curtain with her fingers, and her breath snagged.

Oh. _Oh._

They'd gotten closer than she realized. Orynth stood before them.

—

Beautiful _._ More than anything else, that was the word that came to mind.

Beautiful, with stone houses already dusted with sugary frost, cobblestoned streets pebbled with patches of ice glimmering like diamonds in the sunlight. Tulips grew in flower boxes despite the cold, somehow magicked to remain vibrant and fresh and lovely. All throughout the city, pine trees grew tall, thick-trunked, and ancient. Holly bushes flourished, their berries like drops of ruby blood.

People walked arm-in-arm, bedecked in furs and woolen cloaks. But they were… They were laughing. Many of them were crying.

Streamers were strung across the streets, and people danced in market squares, whirling around the snow and freezing air. It was as if the city were celebrating something; Syeira didn't know what. But sitting there in her carriage, watching them through the fogged-up glass, she couldn't help but think that these people, their city, their flushed pink cheeks and smiles… They were beautiful.

They reached the river, bridged six or seven times, each bridge more magnificent than the last: some of silver, others of gold, still others of glass or wood. Beneath, the river whorled in a fury of frozen ice floes.

And above the city, set atop a steep hill, was the castle, turrets clawing up into the sky, scraping the bottoms of the clouds.

"Gods," Dellie breathed, her stitching forgotten at last.

Syeira could only nod mutely. Her stomach was a tangle of nerves, so queasy and panicked that she half-expected she'd throw up if she attempted to speak.

The carriage pulled up to the gates of the castle. Even the gates were impressive—ten feet tall, made of some sort of metal, but encased entirely in elegant ice, frozen and glittering.

But all it took was one glance to realize something was wrong.

There were fifteen guards at the gates, each heavily-armored. At least two of them were Fae, swords crisscrossed on their backs. Their faces were like stone.

They glanced at the carriage. "This is the princess?" one of them inquired gruffly, and her carriage driver nodded.

"Out," another one ordered.

Syeira blinked. "Did he just say—"

The guard yanked open the doors. "Get out so we can search the carriage."

Her eyes widened. "I am the princess of Adarlan and the Crochan Kingdom," she said, voice unnaturally high-pitched with outrage. " _Excuse_ me?"

The guards ignored her. They more or less hauled Dellie and Syeira out, completely disregarding the outrage of her own guards, tossing up cushions and searching the floor for secret compartments. They didn't even seem to hear Syeira's indignant shrieks. The whole process only took about five minutes, but by the time they were finished, she was white with rage.

"Done," one of them announced. "Nothing here. They can go in."

"Oh, _can_ I?" Syeira snarled. "I'm sorry, but do you know who I _am_?"

"Yes," another one of the guards said. His voice was different, calmer. He'd been one of the supervisors—he hadn't done the searching as much as ordered it. He was also, Syeira noted, Fae. He studied her. "I'm surprised you didn't expect this, Your Highness."

"Pardon?"

"You didn't feel it?" the Fae guard pressed.

"Feel _what_?" Syeira snapped.

"The power. Two nights ago."

She stopped. Froze.

It wasn't her imagination. She wasn't crazy. Though there was still the snake, but…

"You know what it was," she breathed.

The Fae shook his head. "We have suspicions. The king most of all." His eyes flicked to the highest turret of the castle, as if he were somehow gauging it. "Good luck. You'll need it."

And then they were gone, walking back to their post. Dellie led Syeira back to the carriage, and she woodenly ascended the little ladder, sitting down with a stone pit in her stomach.

If they were getting this intense about security…

Gods, it couldn't be Erawan. It _couldn't_ be.

Not another war. Please, gods, _not another war._ Not now, not so soon.

The carriage rolled through the gates.

The castle was bedlam.

Servants and lords and ladies were scurrying all over the place like rats, their faces worried and drawn, but… Alight. They were harried, but smiles lingered on their lips, and they seemed almost joyful.

What the hell was going on?

The castle itself was magnificent, laden with snow and decked with conifer wreaths. The windows were stained emerald and silver, leaking jade light onto the curving paths. Pine topiaries lined the way, carefully trimmed, and rosebushes somehow in full bloom curled around the corners of the towers and main buildings.

The carriage rolled to a stop on the gravel, and one of the footmen hurried around to the sides to open the door. Fat lot of good they and her personal guards did; they'd barely protested her frisking earlier.

A steward was standing on the front steps. Portly and somewhat rat-like, he gave her one, somewhat derisive, glance before offering a perfunctory bow. "Princess Syeira," he said.

"What's going on here?" Her voice was somewhat fraught with panic.

"A good many things," he said evasively. "I will show you to your rooms."

"No," Syeira said. "I want an answer."

"Please, miss—"

"Not _miss_ ," she snarled. " _Highness._ I am a princess. I've had enough of the heavy-handedness of the servants here."

"If you please, Your Highness—"

"Tell me," Syeira said, "what is going on."

The steward gave Dellie and her guards a pleading look, as if to say, _kindly leash this creature._

 _You wish,_ Syeira thought.

"I am not at liberty to say," the steward said. "Now, please, let's be reasonable about this—"

And that was it. That one word— _reasonable_ —was all it took to set off Syeira's very, very short fuse.

"No. Not reasonable. I don't feel like being reasonable right now, you sad, pathetic little man, so _tell me what the hell is going on before_ —"

A hand fell on her shoulder.

She whirled, a sharp retort already perched on the edge of her tongue, but it froze as soon as she saw who stood before her.

Chin-length tawny hair. Blue eyes flecked with gold. A chiseled jaw, a sharp nose; a mouth flat with disapproval. A sword pinned to his hip, the fur of a wolf slewn over his back.

"You can go, Reginald," Aedion Ashryver said.

Even Syeira knew the general of Terrasen when she saw him.

The steward—Reginald—scurried off, his head ducked so low that his chin brushed his chest. It seemed she'd been a little intimidating.

 _Good._

"You shouldn't terrorize the steward, you know," Aedion said. "He's got a panic disorder."

She clenched her fists. "Hello."

Aedion didn't smile. He didn't look happy. At all.

"Come with me, Syeira," he said, already turning and heading back into the castle. "There are some things that you and I need to discuss."

* * *

 **A/N: Enter: Aedion. Next chapter, we'll get to see more of the repercussions on Leta's side, and you'll see more of Raiden, whose story should pick up. :)**

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 **Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. Happy holidays!**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'm back! This chapter was pretty fun and easy to write. Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, you're the best, as always!**

 **Also, I'm going to start a recap at the beginning of every chapter because of the amount of POV switches I do in the story. It won't recap all the characters, just the ones that are important to the chapter. So, if you feel like you need to get caught-up, read the recap; if you don't, skip right over it. Recaps are great like that.**

 **RECAP: While Leta's display of power managed to scare Maeve off, it also alerted the rest of the world to her existence, including both friends and enemies. Lorcan is currently angry/concerned about the amount of power she has.**

 **Meanwhile, Raiden hopped on a ship en-route to Varese in Wendlyn, even though he was supposed to go to Torre Cesme in the Southern Continent. Because that's the kind of person Raiden is.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

CHAPTER 7

Over the course of the night, Lorcan had drafted a brief but concise list of things he was going to do to Aelin as soon as he found her, including—but not limited to—dismemberment, beheading, scalping, and stabbing.

Lorcan had been alive for five centuries. He'd had plenty of time to get creative.

He half-wanted to bind Leta in iron shackles now that he knew for sure who she was and what she could do. There was more Rowan in her than Aelin, and though she wasn't inclined to run her mouth idiotically like her mother, both her parents had never quite mastered the art of keeping their temper on a leash.

Which was slightly hypocritical of Lorcan. But he had to size up Leta like a potential threat, if not an enemy. She might not have been hotheaded, but she certainly wasn't in control.

She was smart, and she had grit. Lorcan would have to watch his back.

He balled his hands into fists. And even after all the girl had put him through, she wouldn't be enough. He'd made a promise to Whitethorn—and to her. He'd promised to bring Aelin home. Neither would be forgiving him anytime soon, not without the queen trailing behind him.

Lorcan had half a millennium's memories stuffed into his head. Most of them he crumbled in his fist and scattered on the next passing breeze; he had no use for them. But some he filed aside and others still he locked away with trembling hands. Those were the ones too precious to lose.

 _Elide._

He didn't let himself think about her name much, because her name alone was enough to cut off the air from his lungs. And thinking about the way that she looked—a curtain of sable hair, eyes almost as dark and opaque as Lorcan's himself, skin milky and smooth despite her scars—was too much. Lorcan was many things, but he wasn't a masochist.

At least, he didn't think he was a masochist. Lorcan was never sure of anything anymore.

She was clever, and witty, and somehow unlike any other person Lorcan had ever met, five centuries be damned. And he'd ruined it—ruined it so irreparably that they had become enemies. Or at least Elide viewed him that way.

Lorcan didn't allow himself to think about what he suspected. He didn't even for a second allow himself to consider the possibility that Elide might have been his mate, and he'd burned whatever could have been between them to the ground, no help from that stupid _bitch_ Galathynius required.

That was the reason he was here, in these mountains. That was the reason that he'd spent every waking moment since the worst mistake of his life searching for the female he hated.

Lorcan glanced over at Leta and spat in her general direction. He despised her. She was a living reminder of everything he'd thrown away.

—

The night was fairly uneventful. Lorcan killed a few creepy-crawly bastards as they approached the campsite, but nothing major. He wasn't that surprised, to tell the truth. The monsters in these mountains were clever—they knew to stay the hell away from that power.

The beasts that would give them trouble would wait; circle them, track them. The damn wind was still and stagnant around the mountains, and Lorcan couldn't catch a scent. The girl might be able to blow it his way, but so far, she showed no signs of waking.

Lorcan knew that Gavriel was stationed in Varese. The mountain cat was probably making his way across Wendlyn even now, sprinting through the underbrush. Gavriel would tell Lorcan to take the girl home, back to her father, to deposit her neatly at Rowan's doorstep.

If Whitethorn even let him within a hundred miles of Orynth, which Lorcan somehow doubted. Even with his daughter in tow.

Lorcan put his head in his hands. He couldn't bring Leta back, not yet, not with Maeve's scent still fresh. Maeve would be difficult to track, but as soon as the girl got back on her feet, he'd sniff out his whore of a queen, whatever it took him. He'd never been so close before, not in a decade's worth of searching. He'd been in these mountains since the war ended without a single lead, save for the false sighting in the north. Ten years, give or take, and nothing.

Until Leta appeared, that was. Until he'd met his former queen gods had a twisted sense of humor.

The sun peaked on the horizon at last, washing the clearing in meager light. Much of the water had drained into the crack in the earth, but a good deal of it had pooled and puddled, creating miniature moats around the conifer trees. The witch's body was sprawled out on the ground, knocked from the wooden board with the force of the wave. It was bloated, and flies were devouring her, eating alive. She looked as if she were missing an eye.

Lorcan made a face. That was one good thing about the lack of wind; he couldn't smell the Ironteeth's decaying body.

He glanced over at the girl and poked her with his boot. "Get up," he said.

Leta didn't stir.

He huffed, and as he did so, the wind shifted. It was so subtle that for a moment, Lorcan almost didn't notice—until he caught that familiar scent, one he hadn't gotten a whiff of in sixteen years.

He launched to his feet, hand on his sword. Inwardly, he was cursing. There, on a branch in a copse of particularly shadowed trees, lounged an osprey, speckled brown-and-white feathers ruffling faintly.

"Come out, you bastard," Lorcan said at normal volume, well aware that Vaughan could hear him. "I can see you."

The osprey's head swiveled. Vaughan had the nerve to click his beak at Lorcan.

"Get out here before I rip that tree from the earth and shake you off. That's an order."

Languidly, easily, the osprey stretched its wings and dove off the branch, weaving through the air and coming straight for the overhang. Midair, the bird shifted in a flash of warm light, and a Fae fell to the ground with feline grace.

Vaughan smiled, exposing his pointed teeth. "Hello, Uncle. Long time no see."

It took three seconds for Lorcan to close his fist around Vaughan's neck and pin him to the stone cliff face. "What in the blazing hell are you doing here?" he growled, his words nothing but a low rumble in the back of his throat.

Vaughan somehow managed to appear laid-back. He chuckled, folding his arms. "Kindly remove your hand from my throat, Uncle."

"Why the hell are you calling me your uncle?"

"Well, you see," Vaughan said, "I've always considered you to be like family to me. And as you don't fit in the position of the overbearing mother, disappointed father, or irritating little sister—although that last one was quite a contender for awhile—I've decided to give you the title of my strange, we-think-he's-related-to-us-but-we're-not-quite-sure uncle."

"I'm sorry, but are you _insane_?"

"Though now that I'm looking at you," said Vaughan thoughtfully, "I think you're more of a grumpy granddad. Yes—that's what I'll call you from now on. _Grandfather._ "

Lorcan just stared at him. Vaughan had always been like this—bizarre, off-the-wall, and irreverent—but somehow, he'd gotten even worse.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, now. Is that any way to speak to your beloved grandson?"

"Vaughan, if you don't get your shit together in point-two seconds, I will forcibly rip out your tongue from your mouth, is that understood?"

Vaughan rolled his eyes. "I tracked the power here, Salvaterre. Honestly."

"You work for Maeve."

"Not anymore, I don't." A shadow flicked over Vaughan's eyes. "After she released you and Gavriel of the blood oaths, she decided her cabinet needed an overhaul. She released me, too."

"Why would she do that?"

"So she could replace me like she did you, Whitethorn, and Gavriel," he answered. "Her cadre's made of Cairn duplicates now. Cairn's her commander, Connall's still her favorite bitch, and last I checked, she kept Fenrys around for fun."

Lorcan hissed through his teeth. "Fuck."

"Naughty, naughty, Grandpa dearest."

He tightened his grip around Vaughan's throat. "How long ago did she release you?"

"Right after she got back to Doranelle with Aelin Galathynius in an iron coffin," he said. "I never even saw the queen." Vaughan's eyes flicked over to Leta. " _She_ is a bit of a surprise. I bet Maeve shat her panties when she found out Aelin was pregnant."

"You never knew?" Lorcan said, his brows lowering.

"Nope." Vaughan examined his fingernails. "I was ousted before then. I headed the rebellion movement in Doranelle before Rowan made Maeve flee. After she left, most of the damn realm headed to Terrasen."

"And you didn't? Why?"

Vaughan's cold gaze met Lorcan's. "I never had any love for you or Whitethorn. I had no interest in pledging allegiance to him."

"Gavriel didn't have that problem."

"Gavriel's son is Rowan's general," Vaughan retorted. "Please." He cocked his head. "And just what have you been up to these past few years, Salvaterre? Poking around for Rowan's mate in the Cambrians? Who knew that you could be so philanthropic?"

Lorcan narrowed his eyes. "What's your point?"

"Only that I heard a few things about all the drama you and your friends got up to in Erilea. Seems as if you were the one that handed over Galathynius on a silver platter to Maeve—and that quite a few people weren't very appreciative. I heard that one in particular struck you, though." Vaughan stroked his chin. "I heard that it was a was her name… Ellis? Ellie? Something beginning with an 'E-L,' I'm sure…"

Lorcan didn't even think as he drew back and punched Vaughan in the face.

Vaughan didn't even stumble. He simply unhinged his jaw, and the muscles clicked back into place. "Nice to know some girl has finally made you her bitch."

"Shut _up_ ," Lorcan snarled.

Vaughan smiled. "Lorcan. You want to be nice to me. You want to be great friends with me."

"Why the hell would I want to be friends with you?"

"Aside from my dazzling personality?"

Lorcan bared his teeth.

"You need to take _her_ "—Vaughan jerked his head toward Leta—"to her father. You need to get her to Terrasen in one piece."

"I can't."

"I know," said Vaughan. "You want to track Maeve."

Lorcan glared. "Not _want._ I _need_ to track her."

"Right," Vaughan said. "But see, I'm going to play a game called _Vaughan's Very Clever Guesses._ I'm going to propose a theory, and you're going to nod yes or shake your head no." As if to demonstrate, Vaughan nodded enthusiastically and then frowned and shook his head droopily. "Ready?"

"Vaughan, I swear to gods—"

"Ah-ah. Guess number one: She has very little to no training."

Lorcan's nostrils flared, but he nodded.

"Score one for Vaughan! Now, guess number two: She's a little unstable. No wonder, because I'd bet just about anything that the carcass of the Ironteeth down there was her former guardian."

He slitted his eyes. "How do you know that?"

"I'm brilliant." When Lorcan shot him a look, Vaughan sighed. "It doesn't take a mastermind to figure that one out."

Lorcan counted to ten silently in his head.

"Since you're not copacetic to my wonderfully witty game," Vaughan continued, "I'm just going to cut to the chase and state the obvious. You can't bring Whitethorn's daughter on a witchhunt for Maeve, Salvaterre. She needs to be trained, educated, and informed."

"Informed?"

"About who she is," Vaughan said. "As of right now, she's the only living heir to the Galathynius line."

"Aelin is alive."

"While I'm inclined to agree with you, that's conjecture," said Vaughan. "And if she is still living and breathing, I'd wager my life that Maeve still has her, which means that we can't afford to take any chances. Rowan knows, Salvaterre. There's no way he didn't feel her. And if he finds out that you dragged his daughter off into the wilderness to maybe, _maybe_ find a dangerous enemy that is not decades or centuries but _thousands_ of years old, he will kill you. And more importantly, your little female friend over in Erilea will never forgive you."

"So what do you suggest?" Lorcan demanded. "I can't let Maeve go. Not when I've finally come so close."

"I suggest," Vaughan said, "that you go find Maeve. And give Rowan's daughter to me."

Lorcan was so startled that he dropped his hand from his former cadre member's neck. "No. Absolutely not."

"You don't have a choice, Salvaterre."

"Yes, I do, and I just made it. There is no way in hell that I'm giving her to you."

"Why not? I'll get her to Orynth."

" _No."_

"What the hell else are you going to do, Lorcan? Maeve's scent won't linger forever, and monsters from the pits of hell are coming to find out what let loose that power. You can wait for Gavriel to get here, which could be a day or a month from now. Or you can drop her off at Varese yourself, but by the time you get back here, all you're going to smell is the damn Ironteeth witch."

"I don't trust you, Vaughan."

"Like you're so trustworthy yourself?"

"You could be lying about Maeve."

Vaughan threw back his head and laughed, and it was so laced with bitterness and exhaustion that Lorcan almost recoiled. "Shit, I'm not lying about that. Maeve couldn't care less about me. She saw me as associated with her golden few—you, Whitethorn, Gavriel—and she cut me loose. I was nothing but baggage to her." Vaughan almost spat the words.

"Why did you come here?"

"I told you. I sourced the power."

"Not good enough." Lorcan's eyes were glowing with a red-hot fury. "Do better."

"I want Maeve dead," Vaughan said. "And it's going to take a lot more than I've got to do it. You can't. Rowan can't. Aelin could, maybe, if she wasn't bound in fifty kinds of iron by now, which I'm guessing she is." He jerked his chin toward Leta. "But _she_ can. Think about it, Lorcan. I bring her back to Terrasen, where she's properly greeted and trained by her father. Meanwhile, you _find_ the bitch. If we work together, all of us, we can do it. We can kill her. But none of us can do it alone, and the girl isn't ready yet."

Lorcan studied Vaughan. "I need you to swear it."

"Done."

"With blood."

Vaughan grinned. "Even better. Should we do the honors with my knife, or yours?"

Lorcan yanked a dagger from a sheath at his wrist. "Mine." He handed it over.

Vaughan lifted the knife above his palm and looked Lorcan dead in the eye. "I swear on my life, on the gods, on whatever fate exists, that I will not harm the daughter of Rowan and Aelin Galathynius."

"And?"

"And," Vaughan said, "I will protect her as best as I am able." He dug the blade into his skin, and red drops welled to the surface, spilling onto the ground.

Lorcan exhaled. "You swear it? You promise?"

"I do."

He turned his head toward the horizon and took a deep, searching breath. "Then her name is Leta. And I have to go."

With that, Lorcan vaulted up the cliff face, blood thrumming in his veins, Rowan's daughter already forgotten in search of his new target.

—

Raiden had never worked so hard in his life.

The captain of the _Queen Evalin II_ might've respected Raiden's father, but he certainly didn't respect Raiden himself. He hurled jabs and insults Raiden's way, even going so far as to kick him or prod him with the pommel of his sword.

Raiden was given a wooden bucket and a mildewed sponge. All day, every day, his task was to scrub the decks and scrape barnacles off of the prow. It was, he was quite certain, the worst job anyone had ever had. _Ever._

By the end of the third day on board, his back was bronzed, his skin was freckled, and his hair had become streaked with gold. Raiden decided that he wasn't an advocate of hard work—at all. Thank the gods he hadn't joined the army; he would've gone from his father's biggest disappointment to his father's disownment.

Sometimes Raiden felt half-bad for his parents. He'd been unexpected, conceived and born while his parents were in Torre Cesme in Antica. His father had been sent there in hopes of healing his paralyzed lower half. The surgery succeeded, but while his father had been incapacitated, his relationship with Nesryn had… flourished. Or so Raiden gathered.

Technically, he was illegitimate; his parents hadn't formally gotten married until he was three. And after he was born, there was no chance of another child. Raiden had almost killed his mother, and it had been only their lucky position at Torre Cesme that enabled Nesryn to live through her labor. Contraceptive potions for his mother weren't just smart but necessary, even vital.

He hadn't been what his gritty, down-to-earth parents expected or wanted. But that was the way life worked.

And even though Raiden sweated half his weight every day and cursed and scraped his knees to no end, so many splinters embedded in his dirty feet that he had to hobble back to his hammock every night, it was worth it. He'd always felt a sort of rebellious tug inside of him for adventure, for wandering.

He was wayward, stubborn, disrespectful. He wished he could say there was something soothing about the motion of scrubbing, or something redeeming in hard work. He wished he could say he understood what his father had been on him about for years, something about determination and goals. But he couldn't.

Gods. If this was having goals, Raiden wanted no part of it.

He did consider buying a boat, though. Maybe he'd save up coins and purchase a fishing trawler; move to Suria in Terrasen and spend the rest of his days on the sea. That was what Raiden liked about being on the _Queen Evalin II._ He liked sitting on the lip of the deck as the rest of the sailors got smashed on cheap ale, watching the sun sink below the waves. He liked scaling the ropes, the wind so sharp and strong that it sliced right through him.

He liked feeling untethered. He liked feeling as if he could disappear into the waves, swallowed whole by the earth.

So when the boat finally pulled into the harbor of Varese, Raiden had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he wouldn't miss the work or the captain, whose breath always smelled like steamed cabbage.

But on the other hand, he'd miss drifting. One day, he decided, he'd get on a boat and sail to nowhere. Nobody would mourn him, except for perhaps Nesryn and Syeira. But even Syeira would take the news well enough; she was royalty, and whatever she pretended, royalty did not belong with slacker sons of the captain of the guard. It was the reason he'd been sent away—the reason they'd both been sent away.

It was the reason he didn't bother to miss her. He didn't bother to miss her laugh, or her smile, or her smell, like fresh, damp earth.

His mother. His mother would mourn him.

Gods, Raiden was pathetic.

It was nighttime when the boat was tethered up at the dock, and Raiden couldn't get much of a feel for the city. He saw plenty of baked mud buildings illuminated by firelight, and crack-creased cobblestone streets older than Rifthold, but he didn't know what Varese was like itself. He supposed he'd figure it out in the morning.

Raiden didn't even bother to tip his hat to the captain as he sauntered down the gangplank, stumbling slightly once he was on dry land. He'd find a tavern for the night, get sloshed and rent a room fraught with bedbugs, and then find a post office in the morning and mail a letter to his aunt and his family in Rifthold. They'd be pissed, yes, but then again, they were always pissed at Raiden.

It was the sign hanging in the street that caught his eye.

 _The Dirty Pig,_ it read.

 _My kind of place,_ Raiden thought.

He could tell that these narrow, slimy streets near the southern docks were the slums. Ill courtesans and drunkards lounged in the street, a few boys around Raiden's age smoked opium in an alleyway ridden with rats and vermin, and hooded thieves and robbers slunk through the cracks in the pavement, daggers gleaming at their hips.

Maybe this was where Raiden had belonged all along.

He shoved open the door. The taproom was large but disgusting, a dirt floor crawling with maggots and uneven tables slick with spilled ale and sweat and likely urine. It was lit by a few sputtering candles, and it smelled of perspiration and stale gin.

Raiden went to the bar and held up a finger. The bartender, scarred and burly with an eyepatch over his face, obliged, and Raiden flipped him a copper.

He found a seat in the corner, beside two hooded figures conversing in low, murmured tones. He took a sip of his drink and almost spat it out. It had gone rancid, somehow.

As he peered in his mug, fishing out what could have been either a fly or some mutant species of arachnid, he caught a snatch of the conversation between the hooded men to his left.

"Maeve isn't very pleased with me," one man said.

Raiden stiffened, senses going into hyperalert.

"Keep your voice down," the other hissed. "Of course she's not pleased with you, Connall. You had one job: find Gavriel and bring him back. And you failed."

"Look, you have to admit it's a little strange."

"What's strange?"

"Well, it's odd timing, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Just after Maeve finds her, she suddenly wants us to track down Gavriel and bring him back to the cadre? What could've caused the sudden change in heart, I wonder?"

"I repeat: _keep your voice down._ "

"Calm your titties. There's no one in this cesspool that could understand us."

"You really want to take that risk?"

 _Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit._

Raiden's mind was racing. Maeve—that was the Fae queen that had disappeared with Aelin Galathynius a decade and a half ago. And Connall—gods, that name sounded familiar. So did the name Gavriel.

He'd just stumbled onto something big.

"Let's just go," the first one—Connall—growled. "This place is turning my stomach anyhow."

"Princess," one said mockingly, but nodded in agreement.

The two of them rose, knocking their cups onto the floor, and slipped out the front door, leaving Raiden behind.

There was no choice. He had to follow them.

Raiden left his disgusting drink on the table, exiting the pub. The street was cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the faint candlelight spilling out from what he suspected was a brothel a few doors down from the pub. The faint sound of music from an out-of-tune fiddle filtered out onto the lane.

He knotted his cloak tighter around himself and spotted the two shadowed figures further down the lane. Raiden jogged a bit to catch up as they turned a corner, flat-out running to apprehend them—

And ran smack into the shoulder shoving him into the wall, the hands pinning his shoulders against the stone.

He had taken a sharp left into an alleyway, and both figures were armed, their knives pointed at him.

"Told you, Connall."

"Shut up," Connall snarled, knocking back his hood. Raiden flinched. Dark—dark, and dangerous. Eyes like black beetles, olive-toned skin, long ebony hair braided back, and a cruel, if handsome, face.

But what was worse were the ears, delicately pointed, and the sharpened fangs. Shit.

"Who are you?" Connall demanded.

"N-nobody," Raiden stammered, holding his hands up.

The other man stepped forward and fingered the clasp of Raiden's cloak. "A wyvern. The Adarlanian coat of arms." The other man laughed. "You're not nobody."

"No, really, I am," Raiden insisted. "That's my last name. I'm… Jack Nobody."

"You're a horrible liar," Connall informed him, snicking out a blade and pressing it to Raiden's throat. Blood welled up. "Check his bags," he ordered the other man.

The man did as Connall said, emptying out a burlap sack. He fingered Raiden's pouch of coins and emptied a few out onto his hand. "Adarlanian currency," he said, holding up a piece of gold. In the moonlight, Raiden could see Dorian Havilliard's face embossed on one side, the coat of arms on the other. "And a lot of it."

"What else is in there?" demanded Connall.

"A couple of letters," the man answered.

Raiden's stomach twisted. The letter he'd written on the ship—the one he'd intended to send back home and to the Southern Continent.

"Anything of interest?"

"This one's addressed to Captain Chaol and Nesryn Westfall," the man said, reading the front of the envelope. He ripped it open in one smooth movement. "Ooh. Starts _dear father and mother._ "

Connall smiled. "Well, well. I've heard of Chaol Westfall, as it just so happens. Though I thought the woman's name was Nesryn Faliq."

Of course he'd heard of them. _Of course._

Why couldn't Raiden's life just be easy for once?

"Look," Raiden croaked, but immediately stopped when the blood began running more freely, choking at the sharp pain in his skin.

"Ah, yes. You'll find that's one of the many disadvantages to having a knife at your throat," Connall said. He screwed up his face in thought, as if considering. "Ordinarily, I would just kill you and rob you."

 _Please don't,_ Raiden thought desperately.

"But," Connall said, "I won't."

 _Thank gods._

"Instead, I think I'll bring you back with me," he said. "You might fetch a pretty price if your father really is captain of the guard."

Raiden froze.

"You're going to bring him back?" the man behind Connall rumbled.

"Yes, I am. I don't have Gavriel, but I do have this squealing pig." Connall removed the knife and wiped the blood off on the hem of his shirt.

"Please don't," Raiden blurted.

"Oh, I think I will. In fact, I'll bring you straight to my overseer. She can decide what to do with you." Connall smirked. "Ever heard of a Fae named Maeve, young Westfall?"

Raiden would rather Connall have killed him.

"No one will pay for me," he pleaded.

"I'll be the judge of that," Connall said. "For now, I think it's time to take you to my queen."

And before Raiden could even open his mouth to protest again, a heavy weight collided with the back of his head, and the world went black.

—

Leta woke with a dry, odd taste in the back of her mouth and a pounding in her head.

She blinked. Above her, the sun was bright and hot, scalding her eyes.

"Ah. I was wondering when you'd wake up."

Leta propped herself up on her forearms, wincing. They were on a sort of overhang on a cliff. Across a charred fire sat an unfamiliar man—no, not man. Fae.

He was handsome, almost ridiculously so, with shoulder-length black hair tied back with a scrap of cloth, burnt-sugar skin, and eyes like roasted chestnuts. Chiseled features; muscular even through his baggy traveling cloak. He grinned at her.

"Seriously," he said, lounging back. "I was beginning to think that I'd have to sling you over my shoulder, consequences be damned."

She put a hand to her forehead. She didn't know who he was, where she was, or why.

What she did know was that she was dehydrated and starving.

"Water?" she croaked.

He handed her over a skin. She picked it up with trembling hands and drank it down, the cool liquid sluicing down her throat. The Fae dug in his satchel and pulled out a few pieces of tough, salted pork.

"Eat," he said. "You'll need it. We've got a long walk ahead of us."

She took it without thinking. Memories were coming back to her now—Lorcan. Mohana's dead body. Maeve. Her mother and her father.

She stopped chewing. "Who are you?"

"My name is Vaughan. Lorcan entrusted you into my care."

She squinted at him. "What? Where did Lorcan go?"

"To track down Maeve," he answered. "You were out cold, and he couldn't do it with you."

Panic fluttered in her chest. "He can't take her down. Not alone."

"I know. Relax," Vaughan said. "He didn't go to take her down. He went to find her."

"Why would he want to do that?"

"It's a long story," said Vaughan. "For right now, you should concentrate on getting your strength back, because we needed to leave, oh…" He glanced up at the sky, shading his eyes. "Probably a few hours ago."

"Why?"

"Another long story," he said. "There's a lot you need to know, Leta."

She stiffened. "How do you know my name?"

"Like I said, Lorcan trusted me with you. I gave him a blood oath, if you must know." He held up his hand, where a thick scab had formed on his skin.

Leta furrowed her brows at him. "Where are we going?"

"That one, I can answer," Vaughan said. "Terrasen. More specifically, its capital, Orynth."

Leta thought back to her maps. "Why? Or, wait, let me guess: 'long story'?" She said the last two words in a mocking tone, though it was ruined by her scratchy voice.

"You're really catching on," Vaughan said with a smile. "Eat up, princess. We've got a long journey ahead of us."

She stilled. "Did you just call me 'princess'?"

Vaughan smiled. "You want the long answer or the short answer to that one?"

"The short one," she said, massaging her temples.

"Then yes, I did, Leta Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius. Welcome to the world of royalty. How's the crown feel on your head?"

* * *

 **A/N: Enter Vaughan! I've got big plans for him. Side note, I looked up how to pronounce Vaughan, because I got hella tongue-tied with that one, and it's supposed to read as VAWN. Rhymes with yawn. Idk.**

 **Anyway, review list thank-you time! (YOU GUYS GOT ME TO 50 REVIEWS! AHHH!)**

 **fairymaster**

 **cindykxie**

 **Wren mistblade**

 **Anonymous (in response to question: It's actually funny that you mention that, because I have something... similar... in the works... Read and see ;))**

 **IWOKEUPLIKETHIS (x2)**

 **firearms57**

 **Real Life Trash (lmaoo at your url omg)**

 **Whoop whoop! Thank you all so much. Next chapter will feat. Aedion's Return** **™ and Rowan in the flesh... for more than a couple of paragraphs this time, promise. :)**


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: I'm back with chapter 8! Unfortunately, I go back to school soon, but I'm going to try to squeeze out another chapter by New Year's (possibly on New Year's?) and then maybe another one after that. I'm not quite sure yet. Writing for me tends to happen in bursts; I'll write 11,000 words in a day and then not write anything for like a week. There is no in-between. *sigh***

 **Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, as per usual: you guys are knights in shining armor. :)**

 **RECAP: After Syeira's romantic interlude with Raiden Westfall, her parents sent her off to Terrasen where Rowan could teach her a lesson. Her journey was anything but uneventful, however: she began having visions of a talking snake, and she felt an odd burst of power in the middle of the night (*cough*Leta*cough*). Upon arriving in Terrasen, a Fae guard confirmed that the power was real, but before Syeira could learn much more about the specifics, she was intercepted by Aedion Ashryver.**

 **Raiden, on the other hand, hopped on a boat to Varese instead of going to Torre Cesme in Antica, like he was supposed to. In Varese, he overheard a discussion between two grunts concerning Queen Maeve, and he decided to follow them. As it turned out, one of the grunts was Connall, a member of Maeve's cadre, and after Connall and the other grunt discovered Raiden's heritage, they knocked him out and kidnapped him with the intent of bringing him back to Maeve.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

CHAPTER 8

The last time Syeira had seen Aedion Ashryver, she'd been eight years old.

Her family had come to visit Orynth. Syeira's nursemaid had plaited her hair so stiffly and straightly that she'd felt as if all of her face muscles were being yanked into a smile.

Syeira had never forgotten the way that the people of Terrasen had looked at her. They hadn't smiled, hadn't bowed. The citizens of Rowan's country knew that Syeira and her family had poured their blood onto Morath, sacrificed unthinkable losses during the war, but they hadn't forgotten what her grandfather had done.

They had forgiven, at least in name. But they had not forgotten.

And some small, quiet part of Syeira understood.

The castle had been in ruins then, and the newly-rebuilt stag throne was the only thing standing in the throne room. Syeira had asked her father why there were two thrones if only one of them was ever used.

"One of them is for the queen," Dorian had answered.

Syeira had understood little about the situation regarding Aelin then; all she'd known was that the queen was not in Terrasen. "Where is she?"

Sharp, exquisite pain had flickered in her father's eyes. "I don't know."

And when he said it—when he said those words—it had struck a chord deep, deep inside of her. Seldom did Dorian Havilliard sound like a failure, sound heartbroken, allow all of the losses that had so shattered him inside to rise to the surface, but he did then.

At eight years old, Syeira had understood that Aelin was somewhere far, far away, and that she had been taken there by force. And after that talk with her father, she understood that Aelin's disappearance might've been a sacrifice, might have been a selfless thing of mercy, but there were so many people who would rather take her place in a heartbeat, luxury and happy endings be damned.

Aedion had sat at the king's table with his wife, Lady Lysandra, and their children, Channon and Daleka, then respectively six and two. Rowan had even more advisors than her parents did, but he only ever sat and ate with the Ashryvers. Looking at the five of them, Syeira had the strange sensation that she was glimpsing a little, broken family.

Aedion was the general of all of Terrasen's armies. He was brilliant, shrewd, and though he was young, no one had contested his right to the position.

Once, he'd expected to pledge a blood oath to his queen. He'd never gotten the chance.

Aedion didn't mourn in the same way that Rowan did. He still smiled, still laughed, still joked, still enjoyed life as best as he was able. He didn't let his grief consume him.

When he'd first seen Syeira, he'd smiled at her. "I hear you have a wicked tongue in you, princess," he'd said. "You and I should get along famously."

But occasionally, Syeira had caught him looking off into space, his face blank rather than harrowed. Occasionally, she'd see him brush his hand along the small of his wife's back, and she'd gaze at him and seem to understand. Occasionally, she'd see him lift his daughter or his son up into his arms, hold them tight, his muscles contracting for a moment, and whisper something into their ear.

Syeira understood this, because occasionally, her father did the same thing.

She'd heard about Sorscha, the girl that her father had loved before he'd loved her mother.

Once, when she was twelve, she'd worked up the courage to ask her father about her. And as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she'd regretted them.

"I hope," he'd said, "that you never have to know that kind of pain, Syeira. But because you are who you are, you probably will." He closed his eyes. "And it when it happens, it will be the small things that kill you and keep you breathing. I can still remember her hands. They were perfect, and small. Like golden doves."

It will be the small things that kill you and keep you breathing.

Syeira couldn't help but wonder what Aedion Ashryver's small things were.

—

Aedion led her into a palace so breathtaking that she tripped and almost fell face-first onto the floor after she walked through the threshold.

She knew now what Dellie had been talking about when she'd called it the palace of ice.

The floors and walls were made of white marble, the green-and-silver stained windows dappling rays of color over the sleek floor. Inside, it had been magicked to snow from the domed ceilings, and perfectly symmetrical icicles hung in midair.

It was elegant, detached; cold. It reached out and wrapped its icy fingers around Syeira's heart.

"Keep up," Aedion said without turning back.

She followed him through hallways glistening with frost, snowflakes drifting along on the breeze. This was a castle of magic as she had never known it, magic not for the sake of fighting but for the sake of beauty.

Aedion led her up staircases of alabaster, round hallways with floors made of pewter rubbed to show faint pink. He led her past old oil paintings and bookcases crammed so full of leather tomes that Syeira longed to open them up and inhale their scent.

She was Dorian through-and-through, save for her smart mouth. She loved books.

Aedion finally came to rest at a small silver door on the seventh floor. He pulled out a key from his breast pocket and unlocked it, pushing the door open.

It was an office. Beautiful, if simple; a mahogany desk near the center beneath which a plush pine-green rug was sprawled. Overstuffed chairs were strewn across the expansive room, and bookcases covered the walls, some of them crammed with books, others with keepsakes or trinkets. One of them was full of glass display cases of various kinds of weapons.

The wall to Syeira's left was made entirely out of silver-tinted windows. Before it, hands clasped, stood Lysandra Ashryver, graceful and dignified and one of the most beautiful women Syeira had ever seen.

Lysandra was in her mid-thirties by now, but she didn't look a day older than twenty-six. One of the pros to being a shapeshifter, Syeira supposed.

She wondered how the shapeshifting aging process worked.

Focus, Syeira.

Lysandra turned, her hand drifting to the dagger at her belt, but relaxed a fraction when she saw her husband. Her eyes flicked to Syeira, and she smiled faintly, though it seemed forced.

"I heard that you've taken up some new hobbies since I saw you last, princess," Lysandra said with a wink.

Syeira's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"Calm down," Aedion said, reaching into a drawer in his desk and pulling out a decanter of brandy and two glasses. He poured one for himself, and Lysandra took one as well, her hand grazing her husband's shoulder.

Syeira folded her arms. "Is someone going to tell me what's going on?"

"Sit," Aedion said.

"'Sit,'" she mimicked, and Lysandra smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes.

"Remind me, Syeira," said Aedion, "about your brothers and sisters and their powers."

"Remind me, Aedion," said Syeira, "about what the hell is going on here."

"Cooperate with me," Aedion said irritatedly. "Please. We're trying to figure it out the same as you. Whatever you heard in the streets, whatever you suspect, is conjecture."

Syeira folded her arms and glared at him. "I have my father's ice powers. My brother Orion has my mother's iron teeth and claws and her heightened senses and gifts. My sister Calynn hasn't displayed powers yet, but she's smart. Very. And Bevyn has my mother's senses and strength."

"I told you," Lysandra said in a sing-song voice, tapping her temple, "I forget nothing."

Syeira glowered. "Is there a point to this?"

"I'm going to take a wild guess," said Aedion, "and say that you felt the power two nights ago."

"Yes."

Aedion and Lysandra exchanged glances. "What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room, understand?"

"Fine."

"Not good enough," said Lysandra.

Syeira hissed through her teeth. "What more do you want?"

"A promise," Lysandra said. "This is important, Syeira. I'm not even sure that your parents would want us to tell you this, but you're in Terrasen now, and for the first time in a decade and a half, events have begun to speed up. And I'm not referring to your little intrigue with Raiden Westfall."

"Don't patronize me," Syeira snapped. "I may only be fourteen years old, but I am my mother and my father's daughter, my somewhat lacking diplomatic skills notwithstanding. I'm heir to one of the greatest kingdoms in the world, let alone this continent. Don't you dare talk down to me."

Both of them stared at her.

"What?" she said. "Something to say to me?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Aedion said. "What we're about to tell you is important, but it can wait for a minute."

"Oh, gods," Syeira said. "Here we go."

"I think you're right," said Aedion, his eyes narrowed. "I think you are your father's daughter. I think you've inherited more of Dorian, just as I've been told you had. But I also think you have your mother's temper and your father's disregard for rules, and it's a dangerous combination."

"If you begin to lecture me, I swear—"

"You'll what?" Lysandra interrupted. "Throw a temper tantrum? Start a blizzard in my husband's office?"

Syeira sat there silently, fuming.

"Being born an heir doesn't mean shit, princess," Lysandra said, looking somewhat disgusted. "Real rulers aren't given titles; they earn them. Your father and mother fought for their crowns tooth-and-nail. Rowan fought for his crown, Aelin—" She stopped, swallowing. "Aelin gave up her life for her country. She was one of the rare, incredible rulers that saw beyond their crown and their throne to what really mattered."

Aedion's skin had gone gray.

"I don't care how much gumption or spirit you have," Lysandra continued. "I earned my way to where I am now. I grew up a whore on the street." Syeira flinched, surprised. She hadn't known that. "You are only fourteen, Syeira, which is why you should be allowed to feel spoiled and entitled and mouthy."

Syeira's breath lodged in her throat. "Ouch," she whispered.

"Yes, ouch," Lysandra said. "And I wish it were different. I wish that I didn't have to rip you to shreds just to get a point across. I wish you were allowed to come into your own as a true daughter of Dorian and Manon."

Ouch ouch ouch.

"But we don't have that time." She fixed Syeira with a look that was neither a glare nor a smile, but somewhere in-between. A look that knew that Lysandra had just torn Syeira down, and a look that knew that Lysandra had to bring her back up again. "This is happening now, Syeira. This is probably the first time that you're hearing this. If the world were a perfect place, it would be your parents giving you this talk, but the world is anything but perfect, and it sure as hell isn't fair."

"I know," Syeira said.

"No. That's the thing: you have yet to learn just how unfair life can be. And that's not your fault, but it's going to end up biting you in the ass in the end, when you get slapped in the face with it."

Syeira didn't say anything. She balled her fists in her lap.

"So here's the facts," Lysandra said. "There is going to be another war."

Every rational thought went out of her head.

"Two, actually," Aedion corrected. "Erawan isn't gone, and when he rises again, we will have to fight him."

When he rises. Not now that he has risen.

"And another one right now," Lysandra said. "We are going to fight Queen Maeve of the Fae to get Aelin back."

Aelin of the Wildfire is alive.

"The power you felt the other night, that we all felt," Aedion said, "felt familiar. I'm not sure if you remembered it."

Mutely, Syeira shook her head.

"It was a mixture of Aelin and Rowan's gifts," Aedion told her. "As if their powers had somehow merged."

For a minute, all she heard was white noise.

Mixture. Merged.

"Holy burning hell," Syeira whispered.

"It's time," Lysandra said, "that you learn exactly what happened on the beach the day they took Aelin away."

—

So they told her. They told her everything, and they started at the very beginning. They started with Elena.

They told her about the Lock, and how Elena ruined it. They told her about how Aelin was supposed to be the one to die, and how Elena had ruined that, too.

They told her the grisly details of what had been done to her grandfather, and what her grandfather had done in turn. They told her how Aelin woke in her parents' blood, and how Marion had saved her first, then Elena, and then Arobynn Hamel.

They told her how Aelin became Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan's assassin. They told her about Arobynn, and they told her about Sam. They spared no detail—they told her about Skull's Bay, and the Silent Assassins, and Rourke Farran. They told her about Sam Cortland, and Celaena's imprisonment in the salt mines of Endovier.

They told her how Celaena had been rescued by her father and Chaol Westfall. They told her about Celaena and Dorian's brief romantic intrigue, and about Nehemia, Princess of Eyllwe; about Kaltain Rompier and about Cain.

They told her about how Celaena became the Champion of the king that had murdered her family, about how Celaena fell head-over-heels for the Captain of the Guard.

They told her about Nehemia's death. They told her about Celaena's fingers raking down Chaol's face, about the darkness that Celaena descended into, about the oath Chaol made with his father only to later break it.

They told her how Celaena had gone to Wendlyn under the guise of assassinating the Ashryvers, and instead was intercepted by Rowan Whitethorn.

And then they told her all about Rowan, and Lyria, and Maeve's cadre, and Maeve herself.

They told her about Sorscha, and Aedion's arrival on the scene, and Chaol's internal struggle with himself. They told her about how Sorscha had been beheaded in front of her father, and how her grandfather had wrapped that collar around Dorian's neck.

Syeira had thrown up when she heard that.

They told her about Manon—about all that had happened in the Ferian Gap and before, and all that had happened with her grandmother and her mixed heritage. About how Manon had killed her half-sister in the face of her grandmother. About what that grandmother had done to Asterin, her mother's second-in-command and best friend.

Syeira had thrown up again.

They told her how Celaena and Rowan's relationship had flourished in the mountains, and what had happened with the three Valg princes—the transformation from Celaena into Aelin. They told her about how Aelin could have had anything, could have had Maeve on her knees, but she chose Rowan instead.

They told her how Aelin had come back and waged war on Rifthold—how she'd freed Aedion, befriended Lysandra, and fallen head-over-heels for Rowan. They told her about Kaltain's reappearance, about Elide and Manon—about Dorian and Manon.

They told her the precise moment Aelin had figured out that Rowan was her mate, just when she thought she might lose him. And how she hadn't told him.

They told her about Lorcan.

"Lorcan?" Syeira had croaked. "Lorcan Salvaterre?"

Yes, yes; Lorcan Salvaterre.

They told her how Chaol and Nesryn had fallen in love, how Manon had saved Dorian's life for a blood debt owed.

They told her about the first discovery of Erawan, about the clock tower and magic, about her grandfather's death; about the wall.

They told her how they'd gone north to Terrasen only to learn there would be no throne without an army. They told her how Aelin had done it—how she'd done it knowing that she would die.

They told her about Elide and Lorcan, and what selfish, awful, horrible, in-love thing Lorcan had done at the end.

They told her about her parents, and how their own relationship had flourished.

They spared no detail.

They told her every gods-damned word Maeve said on that beach: about Lyria, about mates, about husband and wife. They told her about the iron coffin, the whip.

Where is she? Rowan had said, too late.

They told her about the war, about how they'd all been so desperate that they had given birth to heirs on a battlefield, brought life into a breeding ground of death, because should they die, they wanted someone to continue their legacy.

They told her how Maeve had fled.

And then, when they were done, when they had told Syeira the things she had not known but should have—her father's torture at the hands of the Valg, her mother's suffering at the hands of her grandmother—they said the words that made the ground shift beneath her feet.

"The power that we felt the other night was a mixture," Aedion said. "And I think—we think—that Aelin was pregnant when Maeve took her, and that that child somehow survived."

"A child like that," Lysandra said, "with the combined power of Rowan and Aelin, would have the potential to change the face of the world."

"Destruction," Syeira said, so softly that for a moment she wasn't sure that they'd heard her.

But then Aedion said, "No. Salvation."

Syeira looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. "Aelin of the Wildfire is alive," she said.

Both of them stiffened immediately. "What?"

"We need to find Lorcan Salvaterre," Syeira said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. "And I know that I'm going to sound crazy, even insane, but—" Her voice closed up. "I need you to hear me, just like I've heard you."

They both nodded. "Alright," Aedion said cautiously.

And then it was her turn. She told them about the snake.

—

Raiden woke in a dark, dank place, splinters of wood digging into his back. A moist blindfold was wrapped around his forehead. He smelled sweat and urine, and he heard and felt the rolling of wheels on a road.

"He's awake," a gruff voice said. "Knock him out."

A sharp object collided with the side of Raiden's head, and the sound of rumbling wheels faded away.

—

It was dark, but a different kind of darkness. Raiden was sprawled out on the ground, mud and dirt soaking into his shirt, into his skin, and the night sky stretched out above him, flecked with silver stars.

"Drink," someone instructed, handing him a canteen.

Raiden hesitated. He didn't know whether to trust this water. Would it poison him?

With where he was heading, maybe poison would be a blessing.

"Drink the gods-damned water," the same voice barked, and a fist slammed into Raiden's stomach.

He sucked in a breath and took the canteen, drinking and drinking until water slid down the sides of his mouth. He drank enough water to drown himself.

A cold voice laughed, and something slammed into the side of his head. The last thing Raiden heard was the canteen clattering to the ground, slipping from his fingers. The last thing he felt was wetness soaking him to the bone as he drowned.

—

"It's not safe to keep on doing this to him."

"Do I look like I give a shit?"

"Connall, be reasonable."

"I repeat: do I look like I give a shit?"

"Connall—"

"Answer me."

"…No."

"Then knock him out again."

—

"How far are we?"

"Another day."

"He's awake again."

"You'd think he would've learned."

—

When Raiden woke the next time, he was careful to keep still—so careful that he didn't dare to draw breath, didn't dare to inhale, didn't dare to lift his chest.

He was still blindfolded, still in that dark, dank place, but he could overhear a conversation had in rough, rumbling tones.

His head hurt so badly that he wanted to scream. He'd never felt pain like this before. He wanted—needed—to throw up. He felt a bit of bile dribble from his lips, snaking from the corner of his mouth.

But he didn't move, didn't breathe.

Raiden had gotten himself into this situation, and he could get himself out of it.

"Sollemere," one of them—Connall—said. "Gods, every time I walk into this city I'm reminded of just how disgusting it is."

"Rats outnumber us two to one."

Someone spat. "The walls are still streaked with blood. Of all the places Maeve could've chosen to hide out…"

"Smart of her, really. No one would've ever thought of this place."

"No one in their right mind, you mean."

"Hey, Connall?"

"Yeah?"

"He's awake again."

There was a ripping noise, and the blindfold was torn off of Raiden's face. He winced at the onslaught of light. He was in a covered wagon, Connall and the brute from earlier driving up front. Through the holes in the cart's tarp, Raiden caught glimpses of scorched rubble and crows. The sun was hot and scalding.

He didn't know how long he'd been out, and he wasn't stupid enough to ask.

"Let him," Connall said, grinning wolfishly. "It's almost time for his trial." The cart rolled to a stop. "We're here."

Connall and the brutish Fae hooked their arms around Raiden and hauled him out of the wagon, his limbs dragging over the rough wood. This time, Raiden couldn't help it. He crumpled and vomited all over the ground, hurling bile and spit into the dust.

The brute wrinkled his nose. "He smells worse than my aunt Livvy."

"Nobody smells worse than your aunt Livvy, Jacan."

Raiden sank to his knees. The world seemed to stabilize momentarily around him, thrown into sharp contrast. Stars danced around his vision, but beside the pinpricks of white and black was the outline of a desert wasteland.

Stretching before him was a city of dust and ruins, crumbling stone and overgrown, thorny thistles and weeds. Stray cats slunk in and out of alleyways, and he heard the echoing brays of a few rabid dogs, but that was it. The whole place was eerily still, hushed. Nearly silent.

Directly in front of him were the skeletal bones of a castle. Domed roofs and a few walls were still standing, but half of it—more than half—was broken, scorch marks still marring the stone. Dandelions and ivy vines had forced their way into the dusty crevices. In the shadow of the outer wall of the castle's ruins, flies buzzed around the rotting carcass of a hound.

Raiden vomited again. Where was he?

"Welcome to Sollemere," Connall said, as if he'd read Raiden's mind. "Currently presided over by Her Majesty, Queen Maeve of the Fae."

This is a dead city, Raiden thought. This is presided over by no one.

But he wasn't fool enough to say it aloud.

Through the haziness fogging his vision and the deafening ringing in his ears, Raiden saw his father standing a few feet away. Chaol's arms were crossed, his eyes flecks of disgust.

Because apparently, his life wouldn't be complete without a few complimentary hallucinations.

"Get up," his father said.

I can't, Raiden said, or maybe thought.

"I don't care," said Chaol. "You are my son, and you will get up. Do you understand me? You are my son. Now get up."

For perhaps the first time in his life, Raiden did what his father asked. He pressed his hands into the dirt and grit, pebbles digging into his skin, and shoved himself off the ground.

His legs trembled, wobbling like plum pudding, but stabilized after a moment, joints locking into place.

Connall and Jacan regarded him with faint surprise.

"Lead the way," Raiden said, wiping his hand across his mouth. The back of his hand came away sticky and moist with vomit.

Jacan stepped forward, taking a pair of shackles and slapping them around Raiden's wrists. He grabbed Raiden by the tattered remains of his shirt collar and began marching him forward through the gate, shadows falling on them both. Connall walked in front of them, his muscles shifting, his shoulders squaring, as if he were preparing himself for something. What, Raiden didn't know.

They entered a tiled hallway. It was cooler here, away from the sun. It felt like summer in Sollemere, though Raiden couldn't imagine that it was any later than winter at most. How long had he been out? How far away from home was he?

Home. The word hit Raiden like an iron rod to the stomach. He couldn't imagine that he'd ever see his home again.

There were faint remnants of wealth strewn all over the place. Some of the walls they passed by were gilded with gold, others embossed with elaborate murals. There were hollows in the walls where Raiden imagined jewels and stones had once been, had once glittered, had once gleamed.

As their footfalls echoed on the patterned tile floors, Raiden imagined that he could still hear the screams and cries of the people that had walked here before him.

Sollemere. He'd never heard the name in his life, not once. What was it? More importantly, where was it?

They finally stopped before a set of oaken double-doors. Connall seemed to prepare himself, dragging a hand through his hair. Both he and Jacan had fallen silent, their faces sour and contemplative.

Raiden tried to remember everything he knew about Maeve. She'd once been Rowan Galathynius's queen, she'd taken Aelin away, she was evil. That was about it. His parents never spoke about Aelin or Rowan if they could help it. They hadn't been there the day that Aelin Galathynius was taken, not like Dorian and Manon had.

Connall threw open the doors.

It was all Raiden could do not to throw up again.

The room had once been a ballroom, that much was obvious. The floor was embellished with swirls of color. Holey curtains barely covered shattered, broken windows, and a smashed and splintered piano sat in the corner, broken and out-of-tune.

There were maybe thirty or forty Fae in the room, all dressed in various rags. It was obvious who they were orbiting: a pale-skinned Fae at the center of the room, with hair like tar and eyes like amethysts. She wore an expression of glacial rage.

On the back wall, on what might have once been a stage of sorts, was a wolf with bright white fur matted with dried, crusted red blood. The wolf was held down by seven iron chains, several shackles and collars wrapped around its neck and paws and forearms. It lay on the floor weakly, breaths rising and falling in an uneven cadence.

The wolf wasn't the only chained thing in the room. In the corner, lounging gracefully, was a Fae unlike any Raiden had ever seen.

The Fae was tall, almost six and a half feet, with a shock of golden hair and tanned, even skin covered and speckled with scars in various states of healing. Some were red and puckered, others gone silver-white. He was handsome, with a strong jaw and nose, and heavily muscled. His eyes were vividly green. A small iron hoop dangled from his right ear.

Wrapped around the Fae's neck was an iron collar, and his forearms were set into iron fisticuffs. Iron chains were draped across his body.

Even Raiden knew that iron negated a Fae's gift, but the Fae in the corner still seemed to radiate arrogance and cockiness, as if he could escape anytime he chose.

The Fae in the middle swiveled. "Connall," she said, her voice dripping. The head of the shackled wolf in the back snapped up; an oddly human gesture. "I see you failed to bring back Gavriel."

"He'd already fled the city by the time I arrived, Your Majesty," Connall replied smoothly. The woman in the center must've been Maeve, then. "But never fear, I brought back a prize nearly as good."

The Fae in the back corner said in a flat, sarcastic tone, "Nearly as good? Connall, laddie, you're slipping."

A chuckle sifted through the room.

Connall only smiled. "I'm sorry, Kasper," he said. "I was still under the impression that your life was valued at about the same amount as the mud on your shoe. Less, even."

The wolf in the back of the room growled.

"Silence, all of you," Maeve said coldly. "Kasper, hold your tongue unless you want to revisit the whip today." Ire flickered on Kasper's face, but it was gone so quickly that Raiden thought he must've imagined it. "And Connall, I didn't ask for nearly as good. I asked for Gavriel."

Connall's gaze slid around the room. "Where's the female?"

Maeve's eyes flashed. "Not here."

In the back of the room, Kasper grinned.

"Not here?" said Jacan. "But—"

"This," she said, "is hardly the matter at hand, is it, Jacan? I asked you to bring Gavriel back to me, and you failed. You'll both need to be punished."

"Be that as it may," Connall said, forging ahead, "we did bring you someone." Jacan shoved Raiden forward, and he stumbled onto the floor, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

Maeve gazed at him, and her lip curled. "Who is this?"

"Chaol Westfall's son."

Kasper straightened, his iron chains clanking. "What?"

"Who," said Maeve boredly, "is Chaol Westfall?"

"Dorian Havilliard's Captain of the Guard."

Murmurs ricocheted throughout the room. "Dorian Havilliard?" an enormous, cruel-looking Fae echoed, stalking forward. He was dressed finer than any other Fae in the room, save for Maeve herself, with brown hair and blue eyes. "That pig on the throne of Adarlan?"

"It seems so," Maeve said, cocking her head. "Who's the mother? It won't do if he's just some bastard castoff."

"The mother is Nesryn Faliq," Jacan cut in.

"Formerly Faliq," Connall corrected. "Now Westfall. He's no bastard."

Raiden couldn't help noticing that Kasper, in the corner, had gone deathly white.

Maeve stalked forward, hooking her fingers underneath Raiden's chin. "He's a pathetic-looking creature, isn't he? What use could he possibly have?"

"He could be a slave, of course," Connall offered. "Or ransomed. The king of Adarlan might pay a pretty price for the son of his best friend."

"Ransom," Maeve said, turning around. "I wonder if anyone would even pay for him."

"They wouldn't," Raiden croaked.

Maeve froze and swiveled. "Did you just speak?"

"They wouldn't pay for me. Nobody would."

Kasper had turned his cheek to the window, a muscle in his jaw jumping, as if he'd refused to watch the spectacle any further.

The backhanded slap came so quickly that Raiden didn't see it until he found himself on the floor, his face screaming in pain.

Maeve was standing above him, her lips livid and white. She drew back her foot and jabbed the heel of her boot into his stomach, hard.

"You don't speak in my palace, you human filth," she said. Somehow, her voice was soft, even delicate. "Understood?"

Raiden barely managed to nod.

"Get him out of here," Maeve said, giving Raiden one more savage kick with the iron toe of her sleek leather boot. "I'll decide tomorrow if I want to bother ransoming him."

Connall and Jacan hauled Raiden off the floor, but Raiden couldn't stand, couldn't do anything. He was in pain—such unending pain that it was difficult to draw breath. Blood fell to the floor, pooling in a puddle of crimson, and it took him a moment to realize that it came from his mouth.

He was dragged from what was once the ballroom, left with only the memory of the look on Kasper's face when Connall said Chaol Westfall's son.

It had been pain. As if he'd known Chaol, fought with Chaol. As if he knew Raiden's father personally.

Raiden had no time to ponder it, however, because in one quick, savage movement, Connall let out a roar and hurled Raiden so hard at the wall that he descended into darkness.

—

"Shh. Don't move."

It was the smells that came to Raiden first—soothing, calming scents. Chamomile and lavender and lemongrass, rosemary and peppermint. Laced with them was an earthy aroma; damp dirt and wet grass.

Hands were moving over Raiden's skin. Their skin was rough and chapped, calloused, but the touch was gentle.

Raiden's eyes flickered open. He saw a dirt ceiling, dirt walls, a dirt floor. He was sprawled out over a scarred wooden table. Beside him were dirtied bowls of wet water, rolls of bandages, and a few pots of herbs.

"Hold still," a voice said—the same voice that had spoken first, cool and cultured and lovely. A woman's voice. "This might sting a bit."

A damp cloth was pressed to Raiden's forehead, and he winced. "Where—" he croaked, or tried to. The voice came out as an unintelligible mash of syllables.

"Don't try to speak yet," the woman said. She came over to him, framed in the flickering light from a few candles.

She was impossibly lovely, though the set of her mouth and eyes was sad; burdened. She had long, golden hair plaited into a dirty braid, snaking almost to her calves, high cheekbones, and vibrant turquoise eyes ringed with gold. She had pointed ears and teeth, and like Kasper in the ballroom, she was draped with iron: chains, fisticuffs, and collar. She made a hollow tinkling every time she moved.

She was thin, almost emaciated. And yet somehow lovely, in a melancholy way.

Raiden glanced down at himself. She'd bandaged him up, washed away the dirt, cleaned and healed him. He looked up at her, trying to convey his thanks through his gaze.

"I knew your father," the woman Fae said, soaking a rag in the bowl of warm water. She swept it across Raiden's cheeks. "He'd be devastated if he knew you were here."

His eyes widened. "How—how did you know my father?" he said. He managed to get the words out in a hoarse kind of whisper.

The woman drained the rag in another bowl of dirty water. "I knew Chaol closely," she said after a moment's pause. "It's been years since I thought of him. He's married to Nesryn, I suppose?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "Kas told me as much." She took a bandage and laid it over Raiden's forehead. "I miss him. Chaol and Nesryn both." She closed her eyes, and her shoulders seemed to cave in on herself, making her even smaller. She looked so young—only twenty-five at most. "What's your name?"

"R-raiden."

"Well then, Raiden," she said. "You should know that I'm absolutely furious with you."

He blinked. "What?"

"You were a damn stupid bastard like your father and got yourself captured," she snapped. "I think I'm entitled to be angry."

He blinked again.

"But," the woman said, "it doesn't matter. I'm going to get you out."

"Get me out?" Raiden said. His eyes fell on her chains. "How?"

"I don't know yet," the woman said. "But we'll find a way. I promise you that." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Maeve isn't interested in you, and that's a blessing. It might be enough to save your sorry ass."

Raiden stared at her. "Who—who are you?"

"I'm surprised you haven't guessed by now," the woman said, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "My name is Aelin Galathynius. I'm the queen of Terrasen."

* * *

 **A/N: I know, I know; I promised more Rowan and didn't deliver, but it just didn't fit. On the bright side, I CAN guarantee our new sassy friend Vaughan and our old sassy friend Fenrys will both be making sizeable appearances in the next chapter. ;)**

 **Now, for the review thank-you list!**

 **Real Life Trash**

 **fairymaster**

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 **Ahhh you guys are the best! Next chapter's coming soon! :)**


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: Agh, I know I didn't post on New Year's, like I said I was going to, but hey, I'm only a day late! This chapter was so hard to write, mostly because I think I accidentally wrote two chapters instead one, lol. On the bright side, I should be able to post the next chapter soon, because all I have to do now is edit that one.**

 **Anyway, I head back to school tomorrow *cries* and I won't be able to update as much as I've been doing. Life is picking up again. That being said, I'm going to try to post AT LEAST once a week. For guest readers, I'd say check Sundays, probably? Sundays are my work day, so that's probably when I'll post, though as you can probably already tell, I'm a filthy liar.**

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and I hope you all had a happy New Year's! Here's to 2017 being better than 2016!**

* * *

Chapter 9—

Thoughts bounced around in Leta's mind like house flies, jewel bodies buzzing and bumping against her skull.

 _Welcome to the world of royalty. Leta Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius._

She thought that she'd endured enough in the past twenty-four hours, but apparently, she hadn't. Not with this Vaughan standing in front of her.

The world was a cruel, cruel place.

"Princess," she repeated. The word felt wrong on her lips, as if she were spouting blasphemy.

"That's right."

Leta felt a battle rising up in her, bubbling out of her throat, protests and pleas and cries sinking into the crisp autumn air.

But then, as she was about to argue, a wave of exhaustion hit her. Mohana… Mohana was dead, and Leta had been sucked into a vortex of insanity, a stage production of dissipating mental health. Lorcan was gone, Vaughan was here and telling her that she was royalty, and Maeve…

Leta couldn't bring herself to open up that can of worms. She put Maeve aside.

On top of everything else, this Vaughan was apparently her new guardian. She gave him a skeptical once-over. He might have been handsome, but she was also positive that he was completely off his rocker.

She took a deep breath. "Okay," she said. "Sure."

She could play along with the crazy people's dance numbers. Sooner or later, she'd find a way to sneak off. Lorcan wouldn't be fulfilling his end of the bargain anytime soon anyway, if present circumstances were any indication.

Vaughan's lips twitched. "That's it?"

"No, no," Leta said, affecting an airy tone. "I've always suspected that I had royal blood. My head just felt far too light without a crown." She shook her head for emphasis, muddy tendrils of hair whacking her in the face.

"I understand it sounds a little outlandish," he started.

"No, no. It sounds very reasonable."

"But I'm not lying," he said. "And I'm not crazy." He paused. "Well, not that crazy, at any rate."

She coughed. "I'm sure."

"Leta, I swear it." He withdrew a knife from his belt and slashed his palm, right on top of the earlier scar. It made a garish criss-cross, but he didn't flinch. "I swear on the gods that you are a princess—the princess of Terrasen, in fact."

She thought back to her maps. Terrasen—the country on the northeast end of Erilea. "I'm a bit far from my home country, aren't I?"

"I did just stake my claims on the gods' wrath."

"Firstly," Leta said, "I think you're insane. So any claims that you make don't have much sway with me. And secondly—" She hesitated. "Secondly, I don't believe in the gods."

Vaughan arched an eyebrow. "Really."

"Yes, really."

"And why, might I ask, is that?"

"They certainly haven't shown me any mercy so far," she said.

"Who says the gods have to be merciful?"

Leta studied him. "No one," she said at last. "But that is a kind of god that I prefer not to believe in."

"Even if you don't believe me about your heritage," said Vaughan, "believe me when I tell you that Fae don't ordinarily have the kind of power you displayed earlier. Maeve is the former queen of the Fae, quite possibly the most powerful of them all. And you scared her off with very little training and a temper tantrum."

Leta rolled her eyes. "I'm sure."

"Believe it. I know you felt the magnitude of your own power." She pressed her lips together, not caring for the gleam in Vaughan's eyes. "I'd bet that every creature with magic on this continent and the next felt that magnitude, in fact."

"What?"

"You sent out a beacon when you unleashed your little fireworks display," he said. "Reservations about royal heritage aside, if we don't get moving soon, we're going to have a lot more than arguments about clinical insanity to deal with."

A shiver crept down her spine. "'We?'"

"I promised Lorcan that I'd take care of you, and that's what I'll do," he said. "You don't have to believe me, and you don't have to like me. I'll answer any questions you want, as soon as we get away from here. But I can promise you safe passage to Varese, which you're going to need dearly. Night in these mountains is not a joking matter. But then you know that already."

Her heart began to thump an erratic rhythm in her chest. "Safe passage to Varese?"

"Yes," Vaughan said. "I promise. Give me the journey to change your mind about your reservations. We have to head to Varese anyway, and if by the time we get there you still want nothing to do with me, I'll leave you be. You'll be in Wendlyn's capital—you'll have a whole shipyard of boats and a wealth of opportunity at your feet. If you decide that what Wendlyn's offer is better than mine."

It was clear that he didn't think that was the case. _Delusional, delusional, delusional._

She slitted her eyes at him. "You won't try to kill me in my sleep?" Or take advantage of me? she added silently.

He barked out a laugh. "I'd be a fool too. I have no doubt that you could kill me in a heartbeat if you wanted."

Leta weighed her options, mulling it over. He was right; she had felt the magnitude of her power. He could be lying, but his words had rang true when he'd said she could kill him if he tried. And she would kill him. Leta had spent too long being somebody else's punching bag.

Yes, she was tired, and exhausted, and disheartened. Her only home was in ruins, even if it had only been a holding cell for nightmares. Lorcan was gone, Mohana was dead, and the woman that had claimed to have known her parents—tortured her parents—was nowhere to be found.

But what else was she supposed to do? She would go on. Vaughan could be a liar, certainly, but she'd take her were too many unanswered questions for her to be done just yet.

"I'm not sure that I can walk," said Leta cautiously.

Vaughan grinned. "Atta girl. And that's fine. How do you feel about flying?"

In a flash, she remembered shifting—the pins-and-needles sensation Lorcan had described, the burst of light, the feeling of wind and feathers and claws. "What?"

"Lorcan told me about your animal form," he said easily, stretching out his arms and legs. His shirt rose a fraction, exposing a tanned, muscled abdomen, and she averted her eyes, cheeks flushing. "A condor, wasn't it? Want to show me?"

"Won't you have difficulty keeping up if you're walking?"

There was a spurt of light, and then Vaughan was gone, replaced by an osprey that somehow managed to appear lazy and at ease. Arrogant bastard.

"Right," Leta said. "That's one question answered."

Vaughan shifted back and grinned. "My pleasure."

Leta shaded her hands, gazing at the sky. "I'm not sure that I'll be able to shift again."

"No harm in trying, sweetheart."

She glared at him. "Don't you dare call me sweetheart." She almost wished that she had Lorcan's easy hate hurled her way instead.

He grinned. "Fine by me, sweetheart."

Without even thinking, she sent a gust of wind his way so strong that Vaughan stumbled backwards. He would've fallen off the cliff if he hadn't shifted, soaring high above her current with his speckled wings. She let the wind drop, and Vaughan settled back down, clicking his beak at her. _That wasn't very nice,_ he seemed to say.

"Screw you," she replied.

Vaughan shifted back yet again, rolling his shoulders back. "I'd like to avoid doing that again unless we'll actually be taking off, if we could. It's not a pleasant sensation."

"I'd be sorry, but I'm not."

"So hurtful."

Crazy, egotistical bastard. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ground rules."

"Pardon?"

"Ground rules," she repeated. "If we're going to do this, I'm setting down some ground rules."

"I'm riveted."

"Number one," she said, ticking it off on her finger. "No calling me 'sweetheart.'"

"Darling, then? Light of my life? Dearest?"

"No calling me any irritating, stupid names, are we clear?"

"Not at all. I've never been very good at discerning where the 'irritating' and 'stupid' lines are."

She raised her eyebrows. "Would you like me to point them out for you, Vaughan?" Her voice had taken a dangerous, cutting edge.

He was looking at her strangely. "Good gods. You looked so much like your father just then that you could've been him." He peered at her. "It's uncanny."

"Number two," Leta said through gritted teeth. "No insane, vague references to who may or may not be my parents."

"So," Vaughan said, "just to be clear, I shouldn't mention how you got your mother's eyes, you lucky devil? Or your father's exact way of curling his lip?"

"Do you want me to knock you off the cliff face again?"

"Not particularly."

"Then no."

He held up his hands. "I'm only trying to discern the lines here, love."

"What did I say about the names?"

He cocked his head. "I know you're trying to be frightening, but you have a leaf in your hair, and it's kind of killing the vibe." He reached over and plucked a weed from on top of her hair, his fingers brushing against her temple.

She glowered. "Number three," she said. "No more 'discerning lines,' got it? If you're uncertain about any action or sentence, then just don't do or say it. It's not that hard."

He chuckled. "I don't think you want to outlaw that," he said. "If I don't learn how to discern the lines, things could get very ugly, very fast."

She jabbed a finger at him. "See, this? People like you are the reason I don't believe in the gods."

He staggered back, a hand over his heart in mock horror. "Milady. You wound me."

"Vaughan," she said calmly, _"what did I say about the names?"_

"Come on. That one's not even a nickname. It's a title."

She had to physically restrain herself from going over to the cliff face and slamming her head repeatedly against the wall. _"Oh. My. Gods."_

"Look at that! I've made you a believer!"

She was going to _throttle him_. "I am going to _throttle you_ ," she said.

"Can't you poison me instead? With some sort of quick, painless draught? I've always intended on having an open-casket funeral, and I wouldn't want any bruises marring my lovely throat."

She stared at him. "Your priorities are seriously out-of-whack."

"So I've been told. My therapist tells me it's my issues concerning my father's abandonment that do it."

Leta took a long, deep breath. She could do this. She could be collected, even-tempered. She'd survived years underneath Mohana. She could do this. But…

"I have to ask," she said. "Lorcan said that he was the most powerful demi-Fae in the world."

Vaughan snorted. "He's a cocky little shit, but he's not wrong."

 _Pot, kettle,_ she thought. "What kind of powers do you have?"

He grinned. "You're asking for a demonstration?"

"Not exactly, more just—"

But even as the first few words came out of her mouth, there was a deafening crack, and boulders tumbled down the cliff, landing with a splash in the marshland below.

Without even raising a hand, Vaughan had split the cliff face right in half.

"I'm powerful enough, love," he said, examining his fingernails. "Maybe not as powerful as Lorcan dearest, but powerful enough to get by."

She swallowed. "Fantastic. And stop calling me love."

"But you're so lovable," he said, a dimple appearing in his cheek.

"Would you like to show me just how unlovable I can be?"

Vaughan rolled his eyes heavenward. "Much as I'm enjoying the delightful banter between us, are we going to do this, or not? Ground rules are all fine and well, but I can tell when somebody's stalling."

Leta inhaled, closing her eyes and tried to tune him out. She could do this—would do this.

She focused on the feeling she'd had when she shifted earlier; how her bones had melted and melded. Pins and needles sluiced over her skin, and she shrank down, her arms—wings—growing longer. She cracked open an eye.

Her new body felt odd. Lighter, but right. The outside of her wings was a dark brown, the inside a snowy white. She clicked her beak at Lorcan, emitting a sharp caw. She knew what she was from one of Mohana's bird books—a vulture. Her wingspan must've been nearly twelve feet.

Vaughan whistled. "Impressive. And a bit terrifying."

 _I'm ready,_ she thought to him, lifting her head.

Vaughan shifted in turn. His osprey form was smaller next to hers, though it was graceful. She enjoyed the feeling that they'd somehow switched places. Vaughan might've been larger than her in Fae form, but she was the dominant predator now.

 _Follow me,_ Vaughan seemed to say, and flapped his wings, soaring into the air.

But she didn't leave immediately. She hesitated, looking around the clearing that had once been her home.

The little cabin had been less a prison than a refuge, her guardian more a warden than a mother. But as she gazed into the ashy water below, Mohana's body slowly decomposing, the pine trees so tall and magnificent that they scraped the top of the sky, branches trailing in the thick blossomy clouds, she felt a pang in her chest. It had been the only home that she'd ever known.

As she turned toward the setting sun, streaking the sky sunburst orange and rose-pink, she realized that she was resigned. This was her life now. Maybe it would always be like this, running from place to place, collecting pity bargains on a string behind her. Maybe it wouldn't.

Whatever the case, there was nothing left for her here now.

 _Here goes nothing,_ she thought, and jumped off the cliff.

Leta half-expected to fall, to plummet to the ground like a stone, but she didn't. The wind caught her wings, somehow levitating her, cushioning her body. She had the sense of the currents—there was one heading north, one heading south. Vaughan was on the one heading north.

She closed her eyes and let out a sharp, shrill cry. This was freedom. Finally.

Even if she was stuck with one maniacal prick.

—

Vaughan didn't know what to make of her.

He'd been expecting someone else. He didn't know why, but the female he'd found was not who he'd anticipated. He didn't know whether it was a good or bad thing.

She was powerful, but her power didn't frighten him so much as pique his interest. He was the youngest in the cadre, only twenty when he joined and probably no more than a century old now.

It was funny, looking back in retrospect. He'd joined Maeve because he wanted to be at the front of the fight, not because of any dream of serving his queen.

When he'd first entered the cadre, he hadn't known what to think of the rest. He'd been the underdog from the first moment he'd sworn his blood oath. His gifts were extraordinary—more power than you know what to do with, his sister had always said—but his area of expertise was not. Vaughan had earth powers, the commonest of the elements, even if he could do far more than sprout a plant. He could grow forests, create trenches; cause earthquakes.

He was stubborn, and tenacious, and it had taken more than their incredulity to shake him. Vaughan had taken one look at them and known he would never be as powerful as Salvaterre and Whitethorn, but he could match the twins and Gavriel. As the years had passed in a whirlwind of blood and more blood, he held his own and earned, if not their friendship, their respect.

That was what had surprised him the most about the cadre. Their group was not about camaraderie. If relationships were formed, they were tentative ties and bonds at best.

There was something fundamentally broken about each member of Maeve's cadre, Vaughan included.

He was used to being outranked by somebody, anybody. Seldom was he the strongest or smartest person in the room in the cadre, and he'd long come to peace with that. Better to be among equals and superiors than subordinates; it gave room for improvement.

Leta's power intrigued him. There was something about her in general that fascinated him. She was, if nothing else, unusual, even extraordinary, and he'd long had a weakness for extraordinary things.

"Cheap thrills will get you nowhere good," Minya had always said, shaking her head. His sister hadn't held back when it came to him, never had. He was hotheaded, impulsive, far too charming for his own good, and she let him know it.

At times he'd resented her for her criticism. C _an't you just let me be?_ he'd whined once.

Vaughan had been thirteen at the time, nursing his first hangover at the kitchen table. Minya had taken no pity on him; she'd picked up a knife and began chopping up tomatoes and onions for the night's stew. The sounds had ricocheted through his head, merging in a horrible dissonance with Minya's nagging.

 _You're only thirteen, too young to be drinking. The boys you hang around with—always up to something. You know they robbed poor Eleni Bialik's shop last week? You're going to get yourself in serious trouble one day, Vaughan, and I won't be around to help you._

"Gods, Minya," he'd said. "Can't you just let me be?"

Minya had paused, her knife hovering in midair. "No," she said finally.

"Why the hell not?"

She'd smacked him on the back of his head lightly. "Language," she scolded.

"Aw, Minya—"

"If I don't remind you to take a step back, Vaughan," she'd said, "no one will."

"Why do I have to take a step back at all?"

"Because you're headed places," she'd said. It was rare that Minya was that honest with Vaughan; his sister liked to dodge around the issue, dancing around the real problem. She was a master at evasion.

"What?"

"In our world, Vaughan," she'd said, scooping the tomatoes and onions up and tossing them into a cracked kitchenware pot, "when you rise, you rise fast. And sometimes you're going so fast that you don't have time to think about what you're doing."

"You're not making any sense."

"You're going to remember this conversation later," she said, and as always, she was right. Minya paused. "We don't have mortal lifespans, and a millennium is a very long time to live with stupid, reckless mistakes. Take it from me."

He hadn't listened—of course he hadn't listened. Then, he'd thought he had no reason to listen to anyone. He was charming, brash, impulsive; friendly. He had a string of followers trailing in his wake. He was so powerful that he had people coming around for miles to see him demonstrate his power from the time he was ten.

Minya had been right. She was always right.

He glanced over at Leta beside him. Her eyes were closed, and she had tilted a fraction on the wind, her feathers ruffling. She interested Vaughan, and for all the lessons heaped at his front door, he had yet to learn when to step away from the fire before he got burned.

—

They stopped to make camp some time later, shifting back into Fae form in a heavily wooded part of the mountains, though not before Vaughan and Leta both caught furry voles with their claws and tossed them down their throats, devouring them raw.

They had few supplies; whatever Lorcan had managed to salvage had been ruined in Leta's second flood, but Vaughan set about making a fire, assembling a few logs and a pile of kindling. He gestured to the tent-shaped construction. "Care to light it for me, love?"

She glared. "I don't know if I can."

"You lit the water on fire last night."

Leta curled up against the back of a log, bark digging into her skin. "That was different."

He scooped up a handful of dry leaves and deposited them on the kindling. "Why?"

"Because I was angry. Out-of-control."

He barked out a laugh. "Familiar territory for me." He glanced up at her. In the twilight, his eyes shone black as basalt. "Go on. Try."

Leta extended a hand, allowing it to hover over the lump of debris. "Lorcan was teaching me a little, before."

Vaughan snorted. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't wish Lorcan's teaching skills on anyone."

"He wasn't so bad," she said, curling and uncurling her fingertips.

"Oh?"

"Brash, and rude," she said. "But good where it counts."

"You're wrong there," said Vaughan. "Trust me, he doesn't have a grain of goodwill in his entire body."

Leta's eyes flicked up. "How do you know? And why did he let you take over protection of me if you hate him?"

"I've fought with Lorcan for eighty years," he said. "We served the same queen together."

She blinked. "Oh."

"He was my commander, and a good one at that," said Vaughan, if a bit begrudgingly. "But just because I respect someone doesn't mean I have to like them. And you don't have to be good to earn my respect."

Leta's hand dropped. "That's stupid."

"Oh?" He smiled, amused. "And why is that?"

"Because… because the only things that deserve respect are good things."

"Bad people can do good things, love."

She frowned at the unlit pile of twigs and branches. "No. I don't believe that." She looked up at him, meeting his challenging gaze. "If you do something good, that means that you have good in you. It doesn't mean that you're a completely good person—I don't think those people even exist. Nobody is ever entirely good or bad or right or wrong, are they? But you need to have some shred of kindness in you to do kind things."

Vaughan was quiet for a moment. Then, he said, "Light the fire, Leta."

"No answer to that?"

"I've got plenty," he said. "Not the least of which is where in burning hell you got all this sunny idealism from when you grew up with an Ironteeth."

"Idealism helped me survive," said Leta. "I may be scarred, but I'm not broken." _Lie._

And yet, Vaughan didn't seem to think so. He just nodded and said, "I know. Now light the fire."

She exhaled, focusing on feeling of her fire before, the feeling of it ripping through her. There was a cold, icy tingling sensation in her fingertips, and the kindling came alive with silver fire, the tips burning pale green.

But the kindling didn't burn. No smoke curled up from the flames, no charcoal-scent laced the air. Cold emanated from the fire, not warmth.

Vaughan's eyes widened. "What the…"

Leta furrowed her brow. "I must've done it wrong."

"No. No, I don't think you did," he said slowly. Both of them watched the silver flames lick at the air, tendrils of cold air floating up into the air. Whispers of ice crystals froze on the breeze. "Put it out."

She clenched her fist, and the fire winked out. Vaughan sat up straight, watching her as she lay against the log. She couldn't even summon a proper fire.

"I wonder," said Vaughan, "what that fire would do to skin." He rubbed his stubbly chin. "I've heard of shadowfire before, but never this. I've never heard of or seen something like this." He narrowed his eyes at her. "And your wind before—it felt odd."

"Odd?"

"Interesting," he murmured, grabbing a flint and stone from his pocket. He began to strike them together, sparks flying. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

Leta grabbed a handful of dirt and turned it over in her hand. A pillbug scuttled up her arm, tiny gray body running circles around her thumb. "There's something wrong with me, isn't there?"

"What? No." A deluge of sparks leapt from the stones, lighting the kindling. Vaughan blew on the fire, coaxing the flames. "Of course not. Just because you're different doesn't mean that you're wrong."

She swallowed. "Alright." Why was she listening to him, anyway? He was a certified madman.

Vaughan rested his hands on his knees. "Tell me something."

"What?"

"Something," he said. "Anything. Something you've never told anyone before."

She gave him an odd look. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Why not? You tell me your secret, I'll tell you mine."

It was hardly fair—he was probably at least a century old, and she was only fifteen. She'd hardly had anyone to spill her secrets to. But despite her better judgment clamoring in her head, Leta felt compelled to tell him.

He was dangerous, whoever he was. He made Leta forget how little she knew him, how crazy she was.

Some part of her felt... Felt as if she'd known him for a long while, though. _Stupid, superstitious girl,_ she thought.

Without really thinking twice, she said, "I'm afraid of the water."

He blinked. Leaned back. "What was that again?"

"I'm afraid of the water," she said. "I always have been. Well, not always. Since I was four."

"Why since then?"

"I showed my powers for the first time," she said. "I was upset, and I made the water jump out of the pot over the fireplace and splash Mohana—the witch—in the face."

He grinned. "Really?"

Leta didn't return the merriment. Instead, she pulled up the hem of Lorcan's baggy shirt, exposing her stomach.

Vaughan stopped smiling.

There, faded but still readable, was a silver scar—a collection of scars, each a different letter, spelling out the word _bitch_ on her skin, carved by the jagged end of a rusty claw.

His face had gone blank. "How old did you say you were again?"

"Four. She did that before she dragged me to the well near our house. She dropped me in." The memories rose, eating at her, gnawing at her. She hadn't known how to swim—couldn't breathe, had been too afraid to use her power as she bled into the water, the stone walls pressing down on her, imprisoning her. It had been her powers that saved her that day after they ruined her, the water lifting her up and depositing her onto dry land as she coughed and heaved and retched, but only after Mohana was long gone.

The Ironteeth hadn't done anything more after that. Apparently, her point had been made.

Vaughan scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "That just defeated the purpose of this game. I was trying to distract you."

"You did." Leta stretched out her legs, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Now it's your turn. Tell me one of your secrets."

He looked away. "It's not important."

"Bullshit. I told you one of mine, now you tell me one of yours. That's the deal."

The word _deal_ hovered on the air between them, straddling a tightrope. If he broke this one, she'd leave. There was no guarantee that he'd hold to his other bargain.

"I killed my sister," said Vaughan at last.

She was too stunned to say anything.

"Go to sleep, Leta," he said, turning away. "I'll wake you in the morning."

She wanted to press for details, to demand what the hell he'd killed his sister for, but all it took was one look at his face to keep herself from going down that track.

His expression was hollow, empty, and she wondered what it had cost him to tell her that truth.

She rolled over on her side, bundling up in Lorcan's shirt for warmth. Their campsite descended into darkness, the only sound the crackling and popping of the fire.

Leta watched the shadows dance over the ground, and said, "When I was little, I used to pretend that when people died, they became stars."

Vaughan didn't reply, but somehow she knew that he was listening.

"I thought that my parents were dead," she said. "Because the only alternative was that they'd abandoned me, and… I liked to think the former. Being an orphan was better than being unwanted. At least for me." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "At night, I'd sneak out of the house sometimes, just to look at the night sky. And I… I'd pick out a set of stars, different every night, and pretend that they were my mother and father, looking down on me. I used to talk to them. I told them everything." She looked at her palms, crisscrossed with lacy scars and scabs.

The silence stretched on so long that for a moment, she wasn't sure that Vaughan would reply, but then he said, "Why'd you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Pretending?"

She closed her eyes. "I didn't, not really. I still think that sometimes—that they're up there, watching me." Her teeth began to chatter, the cold sinking into her skin even with the heat of the fire. "Maybe your sister's up there, too."

There was a long, heavy quiet, but then something heavy and solid smacked into her back.

Leta sat bolt upright, but it was just Vaughan's leather coat, battered but warm.

"I'll just sleep closer to the fire," said Vaughan, now only in his shirt. He didn't meet her eyes as he inched closer toward the flames.

"I can't let you do that," she protested. "You'll be cold, too."

"I can manage."

"So can I." She held out the coat to him. "Vaughan, take it. Honestly."

"I don't want it." He laid so close to the fire that his brown hair had turned gold. "Go to sleep, Leta. You'll need your energy in the morning."

She frowned. "Vaughan—"

"Do I need to start calling you 'sweetheart' again?"

She glowered at him. "Prick," she said, but pulled it on anyway. It was far too big for her, almost as big as Lorcan's shirt, but it was warm, and it smelled of cloves and smoke. She inhaled, sticking her nose into the lapels without really meaning to.

"Are you sniffing my coat?" She heard rather than saw his smile.

"No." She flopped over, her back to him. She paused. "Thank you."

"Anything for you, love," he murmured, already half-asleep.

Pompous. That was what he was—pompous and arrogant. He was going to catch fire during the middle of the night, and all she'd do was laugh.

She wrapped the coat more tightly around her. "Thank you," she whispered again, and looked up at the stars.

—

Kasper looked up at the stars.

It was warm in Sollemere, even at nighttime. The wind ruffled the back of his shirt, lifting his hair. It seemed to whisper and shush as it scraped along the dusty pathways and roads of the city.

Kasper scooped up a handful of dust. This was his favorite place in Sollemere, sitting atop the ruined cupola of the palace. The dome was cracked in most places, but here, on the lip, he felt at home. At peace.

It was a precious thing, especially at Maeve's court.

It was a bitch to get up to the palace roof, of course—his chains made an awful racket. But worth it. Worth it, so that he could see the stars.

He found the Stag within seconds in the blanket of crushed indigo. He'd been searching for that particular constellation since he was a boy, since his mother had first told him of its ties to Terrasen.

"You can see the Stag anywhere," she'd said. "Anywhere in the world. We named it for our country so that our citizens could always find their way home."

It had fascinated Kasper, even then, the thought that he might be looking at the same set of stars as his father, as his sister. There was something comforting in the thought that even though he was separated from them by miles and perhaps even death, they might be gazing at the same pattern in the night sky.

Truth be told, Kasper didn't know whether or not he'd be able to save Chaol's son, but he would try. He had to.

"I am still here," he whispered, and unfurled his palm. The dust scattered on the breeze until it was nothing more than a whisper on the night wind, a promise, a vow, and a cry for help.

 _I am still here. Find me._

He stood up. It was time to talk to Syeira again.

* * *

 **A/N: Fenrys will be NEXT chapter. Ugh. I'm sorry, I suck, I know.**

 **On another note... Review thank-you time!**

 **pomxxx (the reveal is coming soon, don't worry ;))**

 **Real Life Trash**

 **fairymaster**

 **Guest**

 **Guest**

 **melina22345**

 **cindykxie**

 **Anonymous (1: The three of them are going to end up having an... interesting dynamic, with Fenrys and Connall thrown in along the way. You'll be seeing more of it next chapter, along with tentatively more of Terrasen's court(?). 2 &3: No, it's not. As far as that idea goes... I actually started the fic with something similar in mind, and you'll get more info next chapter. Lysandra and Aedion's daughter will definitely be making an appearance soonish. Just... next chapter. And you're not rude; keep whatever questions you have coming! :))**

 **IWOKEUPLIKETHIS**

 **Mintcat**

 **silverstargenesis**

 **ClearlyNerdy**

 **Thank you so much! Check back in a few days for Chapter 10!**


	11. Pt 2 : Chapter 10

**A/N: Ok, I know, I suck. It's been way too long. But the thing is... I kind of realized I won't be able to update this anywhere near as consistently as I have been in the past, which sucks, but is kind of a fact of life. So I decided that while I usually write one or two POVs per chapter, I'm going to be doing all three from here on out: the plot lines in Rifthold, the Cambrians, AND Sollemere. Which means you get chapters that are 12,000 words like this one (it was legit like 30 pages on Google docs. DEAD). Anyway, the reason for this is so that you all can keep updated on all of the plot lines without forgetting them in the gap before updating. So, yes, I'll be updating less frequently, unfortunately, but when I do, the chapters will almost certainly be upwards of 10k words. (It's been a while since I wrote like that, so... *cracks knuckles* Here we go...)**

 **Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviewed, and thanks to everyone who was patient enough to wait on me. I know it's taken me like, FOREVER. I'm going to start writing the next chapter today, promise! :)**

 **Hope everyone's New Year is going well so far! Here's to 2017!**

 **RECAP (realized that I didn't do this for last chapter because I am a stupid flake, sooo sorry): Syeira is currently in Rifthold, having been sent there after an... unfortunate... intrigue with Raiden Westfall. She met Lysandra and Aedion Ashryver, and recently had some harsh truths about the past and the present laid out on the table. Now, Syeira must confront a new reality, which involves coming wars, new magical/clinically insane abilities, and a long-lost child of the king of Terrasen and the lost queen.**

 **Meanwhile, Leta has agreed to let Vaughan take her to Varese, on the condition that she be allowed to decide whether to accompany him to Terrasen or stay in Wendlyn once arriving there. After Leta's outburst with Maeve, monsters are beginning to hunt her, and her trek has turned from a journey to a run for her life and her freedom. She has a tentative peace with Vaughan, but he's definitely hiding something (like how he killed his own sister), and he insists that she's a princess (which is ridiculous, obviously. *wink wink*). She, too, has to grapple with a new reality, and figure out where her own unique abilities place her in the world.**

 **Raiden is imprisoned in Maeve's court, and he's recently met the queen, Aelin Galathynius. The throne room was a strange depiction: he saw a chained wolf slumped on a dais, and another chained Fae named Kasper sort-of-advocated for him for some reason. Raiden doesn't know what to think about his new situation... But he definitely wishes that he'd gone to Antica, like he was supposed to, instead of arbitrarily hightailing it to Wendlyn. (We've all been there. Jk.)**

 **Enjoy!**

 **(Also, if it's any consolation, I put Fleetfoot in this chapter. Dogs and cats are literally my only purpose to living life tbh.)**

* * *

PART 2

 _ **Finders-Keepers**_

—

CHAPTER 10

A knock sounded at the door; a heavy _thump-thump_ that startled Syeira from her restless dreams.

She'd dreamt of the snake—vivid, raw nightmares, the asp coiling and writhing. He'd spoken to her, asked her questions, but Syeira hadn't answered. She'd promised Lysandra and Aedion that much.

Syeira didn't know whether Lysandra or Aedion believed her about the snake, or how much stock they put in her flickering visions. But they hadn't outright discredited her, and while they'd been suspicious, they'd listened to her story.

"Don't speak to the snake anymore," Aedion had warned. "It might be a trap—from Maeve, or one of her cronies. Gods know she has a deep foothold in ancient, forgotten magic."

Syeira had blinked at them, digging her fingernails into the arms of the chair. Aedion's office was homey, slightly musty. It made her forget the horrors waiting outside his door.

"You… You don't think I'm crazy?" she'd asked, voice quivering.

Aedion and Lysandra had exchanged glances. "I've seen and heard stranger things," said Aedion at last, steepling his fingers.

He didn't answer her question directly, and Syeira didn't dare ask again. She'd learned the hard way that the answers you got weren't always the ones you wanted.

She was still shaken to the core by Aedion and Lysandra's story from yesterday, and she'd barely begun to process the ramifications. She'd shoved it aside, stuffed it into a box labeled _untouchable._ She'd deal with it later—or never, depending.

Now, bathed in early morning sunshine streaming in through her windows, Syeira stifled a yawn. She was in her bedroom at the castle, a modest room tucked away in a forgotten crook in one of the northern turrets. She suspected that Aedion and Lysandra wanted her out of the way while they and Rowan dealt with the burst of power—and its creator.

The knock sounded again, and Syeira grimaced, shoving the covers aside and getting to her feet. She grabbed a silk robe off the back of a chair near her vanity, worming her arms through the sleeves, and stalked over to the door. She pulled it open, irritated, but her complaints faded on her lips as soon as she saw who stood before her.

Elide. Elide Lochan, Lady of Perranth—the girl that had managed to make Lorcan Salvaterre love her.

Syeira had seen Elide a few times in passing, on diplomatic business and court functions. She was the wealthiest, most influential person at court, save for Aedion, Lysandra, and Rowan himself; the proprietor of a huge swath of land with its own mountain range. The woman was slender, with skin like dogwood blossoms and eyes of liquid dark, her ebony hair pinned high on her head with a silver pin. She held a slender wooden walking cane, and favored one leg a bit.

She didn't look to be a day over eighteen. _Not what I was expecting,_ Syeira thought.

"I don't suppose you remember me," Elide said. Her voice was high and clear.

"I do," said Syeira. "Lady Elide."

The noble smiled. "I stand corrected." She peered in her room. "May I come in?"

Syeira nodded, and Elide stepped through the threshold, taking a seat on her messy bed and leaning her cane against the wall. Elide knotted her fingers. "I…" The lady took a deep breath. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but General Aedion and Lady Lysandra met with the king, myself, and a few other advisors after they sent you up to your room. They relayed some of the information that you'd given them."

Syeira's cheeks flushed. Excellent; now all of Terrasen knew she was a lunatic. "And?" she said, words barbed.

"I believe you," said Elide, surprising Syeira. "And Rowan seemed to have some ideas as to where your snake was coming from."

There it was again, that first-name basis with the king. "Oh?"

"Nothing too concrete," Elide said. "We'll need more information."

Syeira hesitated, chewing her lip. "It came again last night." In her dreams, but it had felt so real, so lifelike, that she was certain it was another visitation. "I didn't say anything—just like Aedion said."

"And what did it say?" asked Elide, folding her hands in her lap. As if she really cared, really believed Syeira.

"It asked who I was," Syeira answered, gazing out the window. From her angle, she could see the mountains, snowy-capped and slate-gray, stark against the white winter sky. "Asked where I was—who I was with. Whether I could get a message to someone."

"What was the message?"

"The same as last time," she said. "That we needed to find…" Syeira stopped, suddenly certain of Elide's motives. "Lorcan Salvaterre."

Elide's breath hitched.

"That's why you came here, isn't it? You wanted to know what I knew." Syeira looked hard at the Lady of Perranth, her eyes slitted.

"I had other reasons."

"But that was the main one, wasn't it?" When Elide didn't answer, Syeira snorted. "Of course. Well, you'll be disappointed. The snake didn't tell me anything more about Salvaterre. It didn't say anything new at all; it got frustrated after I ignored it and left."

Elide nodded. "Don't misunderstand me," she said after a brief pause. "We're all most concerned about the… New threat."

"Threat? Aedion said it was a salvation."

"Possibly," she conceded, tone carefully neutral.

"They want to go after whoever it is, don't they," said Syeira. "They want to go on a witchhunt."

Elide sighed. "The council is divided," she said. "And for good reason. We have nothing but speculation, and leading a war party into Terrasen after a power that big…" She shuddered. "The fallout could be devastating. If it is who we think it is—"

"Rowan and Aelin's daughter," Syeira clarified.

"—then we have a dilemma," Elide finished. "If the child grew up in Maeve's exiled court, it could very well have formed an allegiance with her."

"Some people think it's better to leave the power where it is," Syeira guessed. "If they're working for Maeve, it might be best to leave it untouched."

"Have you ever played chess, princess?"

Syeira nodded. "Of course."

"All of the figures have point values," said Elide. "Pawns are worth one, knights and bishops three, rooks five, and queens eight. The king is worth the game." She paused. "Going after this power would be like adding a new player to the board with an unknown point value, unknown talents—not just editing or breaking the rules, but reconstructing them."

Elide didn't look like much, but Syeira suddenly had the feeling that beyond the lady's demure front was a mind of steel and iron.

"They're already on the board, though," said Syeira. "Wouldn't it be better to at least… Neutralize them? Get a feeling for them, something?"

"I agree. But…" Elide ran her fingers over the blanket. "In the past, when power like this has been introduced, it has led to heartbreak and destruction." Syeira stiffened, remembering her grandfather and the Wyrdkeys, his own blood and body poisoned and tainted by the Valg. "Magic always comes with a price, princess. The more power, the bigger the cost."

Elide sounded as if she spoke from experience, and Syeira wondered what else the lady concealed beneath the tip of the iceberg.

Syeira sat down beside Elide. "Why do you want to know about Lorcan Salvaterre so much?"

"You know that," said Elide. "Lysandra and Aedion told you the whole story."

"They told me how he betrayed Aelin," said Syeira. "I thought you hated Lorcan."

"I don't hate him," Elide said tiredly, scrubbing her face with the heel of her palm.

"Why?"

"The king wants to see you down in his throne room in an hour," Elide said, rising and assuming a stiff, blank expression. Syeira narrowed her eyes. "Get dressed—I'll be waiting outside."

Elide strode from the room, door closing with a soft _click_ behind her.

Fine—message received. Syeira had pushed too far.

She went over to her closet, plucking a dress off one of the hangers. It was one of her favorites, a deep vermilion with a gold brocade. Syeira smiled. She loved the color red—not only was it the shade of her two nations; it was a color that demanded to be noticed, felt, and feared.

—

Elide was silent as she led Syeira through narrow, curving hallways, down flights of stairs and through balconies of curved arches. The castle was stunning, though this half was not made of ice, but rather of stone.

Yet as Elide took a left, the floor became carpeted in a blanket of smooth snow that crunched beneath Syeira's footsteps, her breath fogging on the air. Syeira's own gifts with ice vibrated in her chest, resonating with the magic at work.

As they drew closer and closer to the throne room, the winter effects increased. Pine trees and holly bushes sprouted from the ground, berries bloodred and perfectly formed. Birds, rabbits, and squirrels darted through the underbrush, somehow at home within the palace of stone. It was as if the king of Terrasen had created an entire wintry forest within the bounds of his fortress, complete with the accompanying wildlife.

Elide came to rest at a pair of towering double doors made entirely of ice, her shoulders squaring. Her eyes darted to Syeira. "I've heard of your temper," she said.

Syeira bit back a snarl. What was it with everyone censoring her? She didn't need a leash; she was fourteen, for gods' sakes, not four.

"I'm not asking you to tamp it down entirely, princess," Elide said, surprising Syeira. "Strength is good in a ruler. But…" Elide pursed her lips. "Just remember the people in this castle, and remember the strain that Rowan has gone through in the past few days. He's just found out he might have a child on the other end of the world."

"I know," said Syeira crossly.

"There's a difference between holding your own and being cruel," Elide said. "I just thought I'd remind you."

And with that, the lady of Perranth heaved open the doors.

The throne room was… exquisite.

The ground was completely covered in snow save for a single jade carpet runner going right down the middle of the room. The domed ceiling stretched high above them, made of windows stained silver and green. Sixty-foot pine trees sprouted from the floor, and deer skittered through their thick trunks. The wall to her left was covered entirely in holly, the wall to her right in flowering poinsettias.

There were long tables on either side of the carpet runner, each made of silver, and countless benches and sofas spread throughout. Nobles decked in furs and wrapped in blankets milled about, talking to each other in hushed tones. Their children skipped around their skirts, many of them clustered near a small frozen pond in the right corner of the room—an ice-skating rink, right in the middle of Rowan's throne room.

So Dellie had been right after all.

At the back center of the room were two thrones, each made of stags, antlers stacked on top of one another to make two enormous chairs. Only one of them was occupied. Candles were scattered everywhere near the thrones, at the foot and head; some floating in midair. Strangely enough, they were unlit.

And sprawling out on his throne, ancient and massive and radiating power and grace, was Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, King of Terrasen, an antler crown studded with emeralds and diamonds set atop his head.

He was stony-faced, his pine eyes hard and sharp. A wicked tattoo streaked down one cheek, another wrapping around his throat like a collar, and two more peeked out from his sleeves. It was written in some kind of ancient language; Syeira didn't know what. Silver hair streamed from his temples to his mid-back.

Of all things, a golden dog sat at the foot of his throne. At Syeira's entrance, the dog leapt to its feet and started barking.

All heads in the room turned to Elide and Syeira.

"Follow me," Elide murmured, and they both strode down the carpet side-by-side, a hush falling over the room. Even the scrapes of the ice skating faded.

Murmurs buoyed around Syeira— _that's her, that's the princess of Adarlan; I heard she's a witch; have you seen that mother of hers, of course she is; I hear she's got enough power to make Rowan fear her; I hear she's got no power at all_ —and she clenched her fists, ignoring them. Screw them. They didn't know her or her family.

Elide halted about ten feet away from the throne and sank into a deep, elegant curtsy. Syeira followed suit, though she didn't lower her chin.

Syeira hadn't lowered her chin once in her life.

"Rise," Rowan rumbled, his voice echoing in the room. Syeira had already risen, but Elide straightened, leaning on her cane with an ashen pallor to her cheeks.

"Hello, Majesty," said Syeira.

Rowan didn't say anything for a moment. His eyes flicked up and down her form, as if he were assessing her for strengths and weaknesses, chinks in her armor.

The dog leapt down from the steps, bounding over to Syeira. It woofed gleefully, tale wagging and batting around her legs.

"Get back here, Fleetfoot," Rowan said, irritation gracing his features.

The dog did no such thing. It nuzzled its wet nose into Syeira's palm, licking her hand.

"Hi, doggy," she said, something inside of her softening in spite of herself. She rubbed the dog's head, her fingers scratching his scalp. The dog let out a woof and flopped down on the ground, putting its paws in the air and exposing his stomach.

Syeira met Rowan's gaze, raising a brow. "Some guard dog you've got."

"He _is_ a pretty fearsome beast," Aedion Ashryver said, making his way to the throne, Lysandra at his side. The general's lips quirked. "We have to drug him most days to keep him from killing all the children."

"Enough, Aedion," Rowan said.

"No, no," Syeira protested. "I want to hear more about this dragon."

"You have a wyvern living in your castle, Your Highness," Rowan said flatly. "I am quite certain that you can gain any desired knowledge there."

Laughter rippled through the sea of people.

Syeira's mouth tightened.

The king rose from his throne, and Fleetfoot turned over, getting to his feet and loping over to the heel of his owner. Rowan glanced down at the dog with a wry, resigned smile before meeting Syeira's gaze.

"I've heard about your visions from General Aedion and Lady Lysandra," Rowan said, "but I'd like to hear them from you."

Syeira shifted on her feet nervously, the attentions of the throne room sinking into her skin like miniature steel fishhooks. "I'm sure that they've relayed all relevant information."

He studied her for a moment. "I want any updates on your visions immediately, is that clear?"

"It could be nothing," she said weakly.

"Are you lying to me, Syeira?" Rowan's tone had taken a dangerous edge. "Did you lie to myself, the general, or the lady?"

"No, of course not," she said, cheeks heating. "Give me a little credit, would you?"

"I'm inclined to think that you are not displaying the signs of a madwoman," said Rowan. "You have Crochan, Ironteeth, and Havilliard blood in your veins. There are no limits to what might be possible."

She hadn't considered that. The first one especially tugged at her. Crochans were known for their seers and visionaries—what if she'd gotten a hint of her maternal grandfather's gifts instead of her mother's Ironteeth ones?

"Your parents sent you to me for a reason," Rowan went on, bending down to ruffle his dog's tawny fur. Fleetfoot's tail wagged, her tongue lolling. His mouth quirked in faint amusement. "And it wasn't just to stifle a romantic intrigue."

Syeira had suspected as much. Neither her mother nor her father ever played one angle at once. They were too smart for that. Although she didn't appreciate the fact that he'd said as much in front of the entire court; resentment boiled in her veins as a chuckle rippled through the crowd.

"They want me to train you," said Rowan.

She's suspected as much there, too.

"And that's precisely what I'm going to do."

She hadn't seen that one coming.

"What—" she sputtered, blinking. "What about… everything else?"

Rowan went still, his hand stopping along the ridge of Fleetfoot's fur. He straightened, his limbs fluid and graceful. "The war is not over, princess," he said simply, his eyes glinting with malice and a cunning that was dark, clever, and very, very old. "And you're going to need to be strong to survive it."

She balled her fists. "I am strong."

"Not strong enough."

The throne room inhaled as one. Syeira's blood rose from a simmer to a boil, and every rational thought and Elide's plea for kindness disappeared from her head. Rowan turned, his point made, and began to ascend the steps to the throne dais.

No. No one turned her back on her.

Syeira did what she did best. She went for the kill shot.

"I thought you trained Aelin, too."

She could've heard a pin fall to the snow. The room went from quiet to dead-silent. Even the birds rustling in the treetops stilled.

Rowan froze, his chest hitching. "What?" he whispered hoarsely. He didn't turn.

She'd won. She knew it, and she _reveled_ in it, the cruelness in her blood rising up in song. "You trained Aelin Galathynius, didn't you?" she drawled. "Your training didn't seem to make her strong enough then. What makes you think it'll be any different for me?"

Rowan sucked in a sharp breath.

"I mean," Syeira continued, feeding on the looks of shock plastered on every face in the room, "she's gone, isn't she? Those are the facts. And she clearly wasn't strong enough to make her way back."

In hindsight, Syeira supposed that she should've seen the assault coming. She should've prepared herself if she were going to lash him with words like that—should've had her magic at the ready, her senses sharpened and alert.

But when the attack came, she didn't even manage to raise a single snowflake.

She shrieked, the ground whipped out from under her, as the wind yanked her upside down, dragging her up, up through the air, the limbs of the pine trees whipping her cheeks. She screamed hoarsely as stone and glass flew by her face, birds bolting as she soared, dragged upward by that merciless wind—

And halted to a stop just mere inches from the top of the cupola, more than a hundred feet in the air. She let out a panicked, frightened sob.

And then she fell.

Her trip down was even faster than her trip up; she plummeted to the ground at the speed of light, the green carpet runner growing larger and larger with every descent. Shrieks and chaos erupted below, nobles scattering, a dog yelping and barking. She could already feel her bones crushing, her skull splintering…

She halted inches from the floor, her nose no more than centimeters away from the carpet. Her whole body was trembling.

The wind released her again, and she fell the last inch or so, chin banging on the ground.

She didn't move—couldn't move. Her joints had frozen, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. The throne room had gone silent again.

There was a muffled _click, click_ as someone strode forward on the carpet, and a painful jab as someone's boot toed her chest.

She turned her head, quavering, and saw Rowan Galathynius standing above her, his eyes unforgiving and cold.

She'd never seen someone's eyes look like that before. It scared the hell out of her.

He knelt down beside her until his face was inches away from hers and hissed, " _Get the fuck off my floor."_

He withdrew as Syeira scrambled to her feet, shoving the skirts of her dress down with some difficulty. She stared at him, lower lip quivering.

"Aelin Galathynius is the strongest person I have ever met," Rowan said, his voice no longer raw and frayed but rather cool and impassive. "She _sacrificed herself_ —a selfless, honorable sacrifice." He shook his head and disgust and turned his back on her. "You aren't worth the shit on the bottom of her shoe."

"Fuck you," Syeira snarled without thinking.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to slap a hand over her face. The courtroom gasped in unison, taking a step back.

Rowan, however, simply took a seat on his throne. He ignored her. "I'm going to teach you, Syeira, like it or not. And I won't make it pleasant." He propped his chin in his hand, Fleetfoot snuggling by his feet. Traitorous dog. "Now get out. You're testing the limits of my patience."

Syeira wanted to scream at him, wanted to throw a temper tantrum, but…

She wasn't completely stupid. If she went for another kill shot, she wouldn't leave that throne room alive, and her sister Calynn would ascend as heir.

She squared her shoulders and spun on her foot, striding back down the carpet. She _hated_ him. She hated her parents for sending her to him; she hated Aedion and Lysandra for so much as speaking highly to him.

She wished she could talk to Rai. He'd hate Rowan, too. She was sure of it.

Syeira threw open the door and stepped out of the throne room. Her hair was disheveled, her favorite dress ripped, and there was a rather unsightly scab on her chin.

But she plastered an expression so fierce on her features that her scrapes and bruises were hardly noticeable.

Rowan thought she was weak?

 _Just try me, you bastard. Just try me._

—

"I don't understand you," Vaughan said to Leta, shaking his head as he piled kindling on top of the soggy logs. "You can summon magical flame that can freeze a man's fingers off, but you can't manage a campside fire?"

Leta glowered at him. "The wood is wet," she said, picking up a twig and shaking it off. "It won't light."

"You could dry it off, you know," Vaughan said. "You have water powers—I've seen them. Just leach the water from the logs."

"I don't have that kind of control," said Leta. "I'd end up making this forest a desert."

"Now that," Vaughan said with a grin, "is something I'd pay to see."

Leta rolled her eyes, but her lips curled rebelliously all the same. She'd been traveling with Vaughan for three days now, and while they flew during the day, they made camp at night in their Fae form, huddled around a weak, sputtering fire.

She'd tried to give Vaughan's coat back the day after he'd given it to her, but he'd refused. He told her that she looked like a drowned cat anyway, and at least with his jacket she looked like a _warm_ drowned cat.

She'd scowled, but been grateful all the same. She liked Vaughan's jacket—liked that it was warm, but also that it smelled of cloves and smoke, that the leather was somehow rough and soft against her skin at the same time. She fell asleep with her nose tucked in the lapels. She'd begun to corrupt the scent with her sweat and perspiration (she desperately needed a bath), but she clung to the shreds she had left.

Leta had begun to learn a bit about Vaughan. He was similar to Lorcan in that he kept his secrets close to his chest, and the bit that he did diverge left more questions than answers. But so far she'd figured out that Vaughan and Lorcan had been soldiers together; an elite order that served Maeve.

She'd figured out that Maeve was a queen, too. That was about when Leta had stopped listening.

It might all be lies anyway.

But beyond the basics of his history, Leta had begun to pick up on other things about Vaughan—for instance, that he never let down his guard, alert even in sleep.

She'd noticed the faint freckles across his cheeks, nearly hidden by his stewed-tea skin, and the bump in his nose; the scar on his neck. She'd noticed how he never seemed to sit still, even for a moment, always jogging his leg or tapping his fingers against his knee. He was never _quiet,_ either; he was always humming. It drove her insane.

Leta didn't like him, but she'd begun to understand him.

Sitting in their meager camp in the Cambrians, Leta drew her knees up to her chin. She was dying to ask him about his sister, but she held back. If he wanted to tell her, he would.

She wouldn't want someone pressing her about her own secrets. Leta had enough shameful things locked up in the ashes of the cabin where they belonged.

"Once we get to Terrasen," Vaughan said, "there are people that can teach you control."

"I'm not going with you to Terrasen," Leta corrected. "I'm staying in Varese."

He waved a hand. "Of course. _If_ we go to Terrasen."

"And we won't," she added. "Because I'll be staying in Wendlyn."

He cocked his head. "Why?"

" _Why?"_ she sputtered.

"From what you showed me earlier, it doesn't look like you've particularly enjoyed your stay in Wendlyn thus far," he said. "Why wouldn't you want to put even more distance between yourself and… the witch?"

"None of your business."

"I'm curious. Enlighten me."

"Let it go, Vaughan."

"I don't think so."

"Are you always this—" she trailed off as Vaughan's eyes widened.

"Leta, shut up for a second," he whispered.

She wanted to bite back at him, but she held her tongue. A change had come over him—he got to his feet, silent and fluid, reaching for his bow.

She got to her feet as well. Her knees trembled.

Vaughan's casual, easy demeanor was nothing but a whisper, and he slung his quiver of arrows over his shoulder. He had a warrior stance.

She sniffed the air, hoping for a scent, and caught one. Old, musty—odd. Something fundamentally _wrong,_ the reek so strong that she almost retched.

And that was when the beast dropped.

It was enormous, eight or nine feet tall, with black, leathery wings and a mouth full of jagged, yellowed teeth. Its claws sunk into the mud, and it fell directly on the fire, putting it out instantly, smothering the flickering flames.

They plunged into darkness, but Leta's Fae eyes adjusted immediately. The beast turned its eyes on her, lips peeling back in a cruel smile.

Before she could so much as blink, the earth split in two beneath the beast, a canyon opening up in the ground. She backed up, but it didn't faze the monster; it just headed right for her leisurely, wings flapping as it advanced.

"Get away," she warned, her voice trembling. The power in her was bucking, demanding to be released…

She didn't want to—not again. She'd felt so hopeless, chained to her power—

The beast moved faster than even her superior eyes could register, claws digging into her stomach. She swallowed her scream, holding a hand out. She didn't dare to back up. That wouldn't work with this monster; it was not Mohana, looking for submission.

 _Twang._ An arrow embedded itself in the monster's wing. It barely seemed to notice.

Leta's senses stretched out, searching as always for water. Within a moment, she found it: beneath Vaughan's trench was a river.

She tugged on it, yanked a wave twenty feet tall up from the ground. If she smashed it over the beast's head, she'd crash it overtop of herself as well. Vaughan was on the other side of the trench, safe, though he was shouting something, his voice hoarse with warnings…

 _At least she'd save him. She wasn't worth it anyway._

She brought it down.

Water collapsed on her body, and the creature shrieked, but it was too late. They were both swallowed by the wave, and she didn't fight the river as it enclosed her, knocking her off of her feet and shoving her backwards, back colliding with a tree trunk.

The monster was swept away, its primal cries turning garbled, and Leta didn't try to breathe or swim, not that she could.

 _I'm afraid of the water._

She let herself give into the darkness.

—

She felt someone's hands press down on her chest, hard, someone breathing into her mouth, and she sat up straight, turning over and retching silt and freshwater. She hurled, panting, her hair streaked with curdled vomit.

"Thank the gods," someone muttered as she sucked in lungfuls of breath, her chest heaving.

Vaughan. He'd brought her back.

"Let go of me," she rasped. He did, and she shoved her silvery hair out of her face, shivering. Her teeth chattered.

Vaughan had dragged her to the other side of the chasm, where the ground was only slightly damp from rainfall, not her tsunami. Pine trees sprouted all around her, and she saw the hulking body of the dead monster, dripping blood black as tar.

She wasn't dead. Leta supposed she should feel some sort of joy, but she couldn't scrounge up any kind of feeling at all.

"What the hell was that, Leta?" Vaughan said. "You know that I could've killed that thing in about five minutes, right?"

"No," she said, closing her eyes. All she wanted to do was sleep.

"Leta. Look at me."

"Go away, Vaughan."

"I'm not going anywhere, love, so you'd better start talking."

She lay back on the ground, scooting away from the pile of vomit. The wound in her stomach was already stitching itself up, pulling itself together. "I'm tired."

"Bullshit. Get up, Leta."

She didn't move. She couldn't scrounge up the energy.

" _Look at me."_

Leta pushed herself up, meeting his gaze. He wasn't worried, oh no—he was furious. His chestnut eyes sparked with rage, his lips pressed so firmly together that they almost disappeared.

"You could have breathed underwater," he said. "You could've swam—you could've commanded the currents to move yourself to the surface. You let yourself drown. What the _fuck_?"

"I got overwhelmed."

"Bullshit."

"You said that already."

"I'll say it again if you don't start giving me some straight answers."

Leta didn't have the fight in her. She wished that she did, but she didn't. Her chest felt hollow and empty; cold.

Vaughan snarled, shoving himself to his feet and yanking a piece of flint from his pocket. There was a scraping sound, and a crackling noise as the fire lit. "Get up."

She did as she asked, ambling over to the fire and sitting down beside it.

"Take off my jacket."

"No."

"I'm not dicking around."

"I like this jacket," she said. "I'm keeping it."

Vaughan pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not going to take it for good. I need to dry it—you'll freeze otherwise." He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Unless you can figure out how to leach all the water from your clothes, you're going to have to dry them out over the fire. You'll catch a chill, and I don't need to cart a feverish Fae halfway across the country."

Leta glanced down at herself. She imagined a warm breeze floating through her; imagined water droplets pooling in her hand.

She held out her palm, and they did just that. The water came out of her clothes, floating on the wind into her cupped hand. The water slid through her fingers, falling to the ground. A puddle of marsh water formed, swimming with algae.

"There," she said. "Dry."

A muscle ticked in Vaughan's jaw. "Leta—"

But she was already turning over on her side, her eyes closing. "Leave me alone, Vaughan. Please."

A beat, then a sigh. "You're going to be the end of me. You do know that, right?"

Leta didn't reply. She was already fast asleep.

—

"Wake up."

Leta didn't want to wake up. She didn't move, didn't stir.

"Your breathing changed. I know you're awake."

She cracked open one eye. Vaughan was standing above her, his lips white and furious. "Let me sleep," she said, rolling over.

"We have to get moving. That ilken tracked us here, and I wasn't able to tell." Something in his words sounded worried, a note of dissonance that gave her pause.

She propped herself up on her elbows. Her head was throbbing, an ache so persistent that it felt as if a spike were driven through her head.

The sky was streaked with pink, dawn scraping across the horizon. The fire was nothing but a heap of smoking, charred ashes, and she could see the dead body of the beast across the trench, sodden with water.

"What happened last night?"

"You were there," she said tiredly, shoving herself to her feet. She wobbled unsteadily before straightening.

"Why did you let yourself _drown_?"

"I didn't know that I could breathe underwater," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I lost control."

"Leta—"

"Why do you even care, Vaughan?" she snapped at last, though it had no bite. "I'm nothing special. I told you that already. I'm not a princess. I'm not anyone."

"Enough with the pity party," he shot back. "Whether you believe you're a princess or not, your gifts alone are enough to make you extraordinary."

"I don't want them."

"Tough. You've got them."

"That doesn't mean I have to use them," she said. "Maybe I'm not meant to _be_ anything. Did you ever think of that, Vaughan?"

"I said it before, and I'll say it again," he said. The ground rumbled, pebbles skittering into the trench with a rattling sound. "Everyone is something."

"Just take me to Varese," she said, putting up a hand. She didn't have the energy to fight.

Every time she used her magic, she felt that reserve swirling beneath her, demanding to break free. She'd let it the day she met Maeve—and regretted it. She'd sent powers to every corner of the earth, calling demons and enemies, a _come-and-get-me_ when she couldn't even lift a sword.

She didn't _want_ it. Any of it.

Vaughan stared at her, eyes hard. "Do you even want to know what that beast was?"

 _No,_ she thought, but he was already answering his own question.

"It was an ilken—a Valg. A demon that fought on the wrong side of a war that almost killed off the entirety of Erilea a decade and a half ago. Aren't you just the least bit curious as to how it got here, what it's doing so far away? How it survived at all when its side lost?"

"No."

"You're a terrible liar, love."

And that time, _love_ didn't sound like an endearment at all.

" _Stop it,"_ she said. "Why do you even _care_?"

"I promised to take care of you."

"Maybe you should stop making promises that you can't keep."

"Dammit, Leta—"

"I've had enough. Take me to Varese."

"Honestly—"

" _Take me to Varese now."_

"For gods' sakes—"

"This wasn't our deal! Take me to the capitol."

The earth shook. " _Listen to me."_

"Vaughan," Leta said quietly, calmly, the earth stilling beneath her feet, "if you don't take me to the city right now, I'm going to leave and get there myself. I don't need you. I can figure out a way."

"You'd get lost in a second."

"Maybe that's preferable to being here with you."

They held each other's gazes, each of them riled with anger, their fury swimming in the thin autumn air.

She wasn't going to back down. She was done.

"You deserve more than that."

She blinked. Whatever she'd been expecting Vaughan to say, it wasn't that. "Excuse me?"

"You deserve more," he said, "than some half-assed suicidal sacrifice in the middle of the Cambrians. Don't throw yourself away because you think the going's gotten a little hard."

"Gotten a little hard? _Gotten a little hard?_ " Her voice went shrill. "Are you _kidding_ me? My life's been _nothing_ but hard!"

"So you grew up with an Ironteeth," he dismissed. "I've got news for you, love: you're not special. You've been given a shot at something better. Not everyone's so lucky."

"Stop. Calling. Me. Love."

He grinned wolfishly, lips peeling back in a snarl to reveal his fangs. " _Love."_

Leta growled as the soil around them began to shake, the rocks bouncing as Vaughan shook the forest floor.

She rose a hand, and silver fire erupted from the trench, so cold that the ground frosted over, icicles forming on the trees around them. The air filled with tinkling as ice slicked over the dirt and plants, freezing it solid. The earth quieted.

Just as quickly as it came, the fire disappeared. The ice began to melt almost instantaneously.

"See," Vaughan said, crossing his arms and smirking. "You don't want to give that up, do you?"

She picked up a fallen pinecone and hurled it at his head.

A jagged piece of stone spiked up from the ground, a shield of solid rock, blocking her pinecone no more than an inch away from his face.

"You're _insufferable_."

"Thank you."

She turned. "I'm going to Varese by myself. You can stay here and rot, for all I care."

He rose a brow. "Sure that's a good idea?"

"Better than being stuck with you."

He shrugged. He didn't look particularly bothered.

She shifted, her Fae form vanishing in a burst of light. She let out a harsh, shrill caw and flapped her wings, soaring up high, high above the ground.

She looked to her right and saw the mountains, stretching out endlessly in an expanse of gray.

She looked to her left and saw Vaughan in osprey form, clicking his tongue at her. _You can't get rid of me this easily._

Leta willed the wind to propel her. She'd continue to head north; eventually, she'd hit the shore. From there, she could follow the beach until she found a river, and make her way to Varese.

Maybe she'd stay in her animal form forever. She didn't want anything to do with Fae or humans.

She'd make friends with the squirrels. They seemed like friendly creatures.

The wind caught her wings, shoving her forward at the speed of light. She left Vaughan far, far behind.

—

Raiden did not particularly appreciate this turn of events.

He sat in his jail cell, crouched on a bed of moldy straw. The dungeon at the palace in Sollemere was made entirely out of iron: floors, bars, and cots; shackles and collars. Pure iron, black and soul-sucking.

He was the prison's only inhabitant save for a hulking, shadowy form in the corner. The other prisoner hadn't said a word since Raiden had been brought in a day earlier.

His head was still spinning.

 _Aelin was alive._

He'd stared at her after she'd admitted it. Of course he'd known that if the queen were alive, if she were anywhere, it would be here, at Maeve's court. Of course he'd known that the woman bore a remarkable resemblance to Aelin, down to the Ashryver eyes and golden coloring. Of course he'd known that it made sense, clicked into place.

And yet… It had shaken him to his core.

"I've been under Maeve's jurisdiction for nearly seventeen years," the queen had said, business-like as ever. "I've been her slave. I've become very good at it—surviving like this." Her lips twisted bitterly. "I sneak pinches of herbs from the kitchens and scraps of cloth from the laundry. It's important, especially when people like you come to my door looking like bloodied slabs of meat."

Raiden's mouth had opened and closed, flopping like the flappy sole of a poorly-made shoe. "But…" he stammered. "This isn't a cell."

Although to him, it was somehow worse. It was as small as a cell, outfitted with nothing but a splintery wooden cupboard, the wobbly table on which he was outstretched, and a pile of damp hay in the corner that he supposed was her bed. The walls and floor were made entirely of dirt, as if this was some hollowed-out underground bunker deep below the surface. It was oppressively dark save for a few sputtering tallow candles.

"Oh yes it is," she said grimly. "See the chains?" She lifted her arms for emphasis, and the iron rattled and clanked. "Maeve knows I won't try to escape, not as weak as I am, not with forty bloodthirsty Fae in her throne room ready to cut off my head. Not with the leverage she's got on me."

"What leverage?" Raiden asked, knitting his brows.

But as Aelin opened her mouth to answer, a knock sounded on the crude wooden door. Without waiting for an answer, the blond Fae from the throne room strode into the not-cell.

Raiden recognized him. _Kasper._

"It's time to go," Kasper said, addressing not Raiden but Aelin. "They'll notice he's missing soon. He's been gone an hour."

"Why are you here?" blurted Raiden.

Kasper's gaze flicked coolly to him. "I brought you here."

"Take him back," Aelin said, lifting the bowls and pots of herbs and bandages and shoving them back into the cupboard. She limped a bit, and Raiden saw lash marks on her calves.

"But—" he began.

"No buts," said Kasper, yanking Raiden off the table. "Time to go, unless you want to lose your head. I risked enough getting you here as it is."

Raiden blinked. "Why did you?"

"Because you would've died otherwise," Kasper answered, propping open the door with his foot. "That's why."

Kasper was already shoving a wobbling Raiden out the door when Aelin spoke up.

"Kas," she said. Her words were strained, somehow small. Broken. "Be careful, okay?"

Kasper gave her a small smile. "When am I not?"

And then they were in a dark, dirt-packed hallway, door thudding shut behind them, heading for a set of mud stairs.

"Keep up," Kasper barked, his brief flicker of gentleness gone. He ran up the stairs, and Raiden panted, struggling to match the Fae's unnaturally fast, brutal pace. They reached a solid, heavy door, and Kasper shoved it open.

They came out into a graveyard. The sun shone hot and bright above them, slamming its rays into the dusty ground. Marked and unmarked gravestones jutted up from the soil, some crumbling, others gleaming. About fifty feet away was the palace, looming up oppressively.

Raiden glanced behind him. They'd come out of a tomb.

And that was when he understood: Aelin's living situation was far worse than a jail cell. She was living in a grave.

"Come on," Kasper growled, grabbing Raiden by his shirt collar and hurling him forward.

The Fae led Raiden through tiled halls, down and up staircases, past mosaic murals and sandstone columns, until they came to the iron prison. He'd thrown Raiden into a cell, slammed the door shut behind him, and snarled, " _Stay put."_

"I thought Aelin said she was going to help me," Raiden said, but Kasper ignored him, heading for the stairs and climbing them two, three at a time. As if he were late for something.

And then Raiden had been left alone, a faint _plip-plip_ the only sound to be heard for miles, or so it seemed.

 _What leverage?_

A day later, and Raiden still didn't have the faintest idea. He didn't even know who Kasper was; he was too busy being starving, bruised, and bored.

He lifted his head and looked at the shadowy prisoner in the corner, separated by about three or four cells. "Hey," he said, waving a hand in a halfhearted gesture.

The prisoner snorted. "Hello, Captain's son."

His hackles rose. "Who are you?"

The prisoner edged a few inches into the meager light spilling in through the barred, glassless windows. He was handsome, but possibly even worse off than Raiden: his golden hair was crusted and thick with the brown russet of dried blood, his elegant cheekbones swollen and puffy, one onyx eye closed shut. Infected pus oozed from wounds in his chest, arms, legs, and face. His lips were split and bleeding freely.

He, too, was wrapped in chains.

What had he and Kasper done to warrant them? And why wasn't Kasper in a prison cell along with them?

Too many questions with no answers.

"If I told you," the prisoner rasped, "would you believe me? Or know my name?" He spat into the dirt. "Not likely."

"I know more than you think."

The prisoner chuckled.

"I grew up at Morath," Raiden said. "On the battlefield."

The prisoner exhaled. "Did you, now." He paused. "And you… saw… the commanders?"

"Every one of them," he confirmed. "My own father was a commander."

A beat. "My name is Fenrys," the prisoner said. "Twin brother to Connall, member of Maeve's cadre."

Raiden blinked. "Then why the hell are you chained up?"

"That," said Fenrys, his shackles tinkling as he adjusted his position, "is a very long story."

"Well, I don't know if you've noticed, but we've got nothing but time."

Fenrys's bloodied lips twisted into a smile. "So it seems now."

"Oh, right," Raiden said. "I forgot. You Fae and your cliche ' _I have lived a thousand lifetimes._ '"

"Your impression of us is uncanny."

"I'm thinking of taking my talents on the road. I'll hire a full-on caravan, charge three gold coins just to see me."

Fenrys's lips twitched. "I advise keeping your day job."

"You know, it's funny, my mother said the same thing."

The Fae tilted his head at Raiden before relenting. "I'll tell you bits and pieces, Captain's son, but nothing more. This story is only half-mine to tell."

"You did get imprisoned for it," Raiden pointed out. "Doesn't that constitute a little more than half?"

"Depends on the way that you look at it."

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then Fenrys spoke.

"About sixteen years ago, twins were born here. In Sollemere." Fenrys studied the ground. "Powerful twins. And one of them showed… unusual gifts. Dark gifts."

"Dark gifts," Raiden repeated.

"Gifts of death," said Fenrys. "One of them showed powers of light—a beacon. The other was a vacuum. One fed off of triumph, the other off of loss."

"Sounds like it's right up Maeve's alley," mused Raiden.

"No." Fenrys coughed, blood spattering onto his elbow. "Both of these twins were more powerful than Maeve. Their powers combined together could be… lethal. One, she could withstand. Both?" He shook his head. "She wanted a beacon, not a vacuum. So she commanded that the other infant be disposed of immediately."

Raiden's stomach turned.

"And she gave that job to me. I knew the mother of the twins," said Fenrys. "And she was… devastated." He hesitated. "I knew the father, too. He wasn't here."

Raiden took that to mean, more or less, that he was dead.

"I couldn't kill their child," Fenrys said. "Maeve is a bitch. My story of service to her is a long, complicated one, but I never did anything without resentment building." Another cough. "So I did what I could. I took the infant into the mountains. There was an old witch living there, exiled for killing one of her own kind. The witch was cruel, but the girl would be safe there.

"I gave the baby to the witch," he continued. "And I told her the name that the child's mother had given her. The witch would not be kind to the girl, but no one would dare tangle with an Ironteeth. The girl would grow up fearful but safe." Fenrys hesitated. "I told the witch if I ever came back and found so much as a scratch on the girl that I'd kill her where she stood."

"You came back?" Raiden said. "To check on her?"

"Yes. Every year or so until we came to Sollemere. Then, the distance became impossible."

"And when did you come to Sollemere?"

"About a decade ago." Fenrys let out another hacking cough. "After Rowan Galathynius triumphed on Morath and swore to hunt Maeve down and kill her." The Fae's lips twitched. "That was the best day I'd had in a long, long time. Until Maeve decided to run like a little bitch instead of fight."

"Is the baby still… alive?"

Fenrys leaned his head back against the wall. "I don't know," he said hoarsely. "I think so. I never told anyone what I'd done, not even the girl's mother. It would only endanger lives."

"And that's why you're here?" Raiden demanded. "How did Maeve find out?"

"She felt a trickle of power. Maeve can feel gifts like no one else, and she felt some of that deathly vacuum in the Cambrians. She tortured me, and though I didn't confess, she already knew." Fenrys growled. "She hunted down the girl with the intent to kill her."

"You think she might've survived," Raiden guessed. "Because of how powerful she is."

"The girl sent a lightning bolt of power throughout the world so strong that every Fae in Sollemere felt it," said Fenrys. "Maeve came back empty-handed, and she refused to give anyone a straight answer about what had happened."

Raiden stared at the iron walls, at his lovely iron birdcage. "You said there were twins," he said slowly.

"A girl and a boy."

"So if the girl went to the batshit Ironteeth… what happened to the boy?"

"That," Fenrys said, "is not my secret to tell."

"But you said they were both more powerful than Maeve," Raiden insisted. "Couldn't the boy have had the potential to destroy her?"

"Yes."

"Then why the hell didn't he?"

"Not my tale to tell."

Raiden balled his hands into fists. "And what about their mother? Who the hell gave birth to them?"

Fenrys grinned, baring his scarlet-stained incisors. "I'm not going to tell you anything else, Captain's son."

He groaned. "Whose story _is_ it to tell, then?"

"If they want you to know," said Fenrys, "they'll come to you."

Raiden narrowed his eyes. "I'll trade information."

The Fae snickered. "Oh, I'm sure."

"You've all been cut off with everything that's happened in Erilea. Aren't you the least bit curious as to what's happening?"

"The rest of the court is well-informed," said Fenrys, stretching. "Maeve has members of her court in every major city and country in Wendlyn, Erilea, and the Southern Continent."

"The _rest_ of the court?"

"Of course I don't know anything. My loyalties have always been compromised." Fenrys smirked. "I'd be curious, but I'm not revealing any more of that story to you."

Raiden scowled. "Great."

"Patience, little one," said Fenrys drily. "You'll find out soon enough."

 _Soon enough._ Raiden would figure out if Aelin was serious about jailbreaking him _soon enough._ He'd determine who Kasper was and what he'd done _soon enough._

Raiden was not a patient person.

"I do have a question for you, however," Fenrys said, speaking up when Raiden least expected it. "How the hell did Connall and Jacan get their hands on you? They were in Wendlyn. Your father is the king of Adarlan's captain of the guard. There's an ocean separating you from your home."

"I don't see why I should tell you."

"Because allies in this court are a powerful thing, Captain's son."

Raiden frowned at the Fae. "If you must know," he said, "I was supposed to be on my way to Torre Cesme in Antica."

"How did you end up in Wendlyn?"

"I jumped on the wrong ship, it seems." He held up his hands. "Oops."

Fenrys shook his head. "Why were you on your way to Torre Cesme in the first place? I thought your parents were the honorable, serve-your-country types."

"Not me. I'm the raise-hell-and-laugh type."

"So it was a punishment." Fenrys wrinkled his forehead. "What did you do?"

 _What the hell._ "Slept with the king's daughter."

Silence. Silence, save for a faint dripping noise in the dank, damp dungeon.

And then Fenrys _howled._

Laughter exploded in the cells as the Fae roared, doubling over and coughing with the effort. "You did _what_?"

"I slept with the king's daughter. Several times, actually—we were… together. But Dorian caught me in her bed—actually, Manon and Dorian _both_ caught me in her bed. It kind of went downhill from there."

Fenry's laughter, if anything, increased. "Dorian—and—Manon—Crochan—caught you—in their—daughter's— _bed_?" he wheezed.

"It was hands-down the worst experience of my life," Raiden affirmed dourly. "All this ball-and-chain stuff?" He shook his head. "Pales in comparison."

"Oh, what I would have _paid_ to see the look on their face," Fenrys panted, clutching a gaping wound in his side. He looked up and grinned at Raiden—not a defiant, reckless grin, but a friendly smile.

It made something in Raiden's chest squeeze. No one had ever been that nice to him. Not since…

Not since Syeira.

"I think you and I might get along after all, hell-raiser," Fenrys said, pantomiming holding up a glass to him.

And even though Raiden knew it was crazy… Knew that it was crazy, and he was stuck in a dungeon, in this crazy place with an imprisoned queen and twins of vacuums and beacons…

"Yeah," he said, grinning back tentatively. "Maybe."

—

Leta stopped a few hours later. She ate a vole and a fish in her condor form, snapping them down within seconds, and then shifted back into her Fae form, seeking out a boulder at the edge of a clearing.

She didn't even bother with a fire. She just sat there in the darkness, staring out at nothing.

She'd dropped the winds after about five minutes, satisfied that Vaughan was behind her. So what if he'd made an alleged promise to Lorcan? That wasn't her problem. She wasn't something to be bartered or bargained over; she was a human being.

Or… not a human being. Fae.

Leta tipped her head up to look at the stars. Clouds obscured the night sky, a thick veil of charcoal, tendrils of mist coiling themselves around the moon.

What would she even do in Varese? Work as a barmaid? Sell flowers in the middle of the street?

She liked that last option. It had a certain romanticism to it.

She found herself yet again wishing for her ruined maps. _Terrasen_ —that country of pine and snow to the west, in the north of Erilea. The name tugged at her chest, as if saying, _remember. Remember me._

But that was wishful thinking. She wasn't that crazy, not yet.

Maybe it would be best to get out of Wendlyn, to distance herself further from Maeve and the memories of the cabin. She wouldn't go to Terrasen, if only on principle. No, perhaps she'd head for Adarlan, or Eyllwe. Even Melisande or Fenharrow.

She had nothing tying her down, no tethers attached to her body. She only had to get out of this gods-forsaken mountain range before she could buy a flower cart and sell daisies and roses for a copper in the streets.

It was a good future. She could plead to others that she was a magicless Fae, a weak Fae. They'd leave her alone. She'd never tell anyone about Mohana, or her cabin, or the string of lunacy that had led her out of Wendlyn.

Those were her secrets to keep.

Then she heard the growl.

It rippled through the clearing, deadly and edged. Leta got to her feet, fear racing through her veins.

A pair of eyes glittered in the underbrush, yellow pupils bright and deadly.

It stepped out into the clearing, and she had to stifle a scream.

It was an ilken. Another one of those terrifying winged beasts, with those lethal fangs and clawed feet and hands.

Leta reached for her magic, for that silver fire, but stopped as she saw two more ilken emerge from the forest.

Three of them. Three of those freaking monster _things._

She didn't bother to stifle the scream this time.

The ilken leapt at her, her own stomach wound from the previous day hissing, and its talons sunk into her arm.

She hurled her fire at the beast, and it shrieked, falling back as ice crystals mounted on its skin, spiderwebbing across its body.

In a matter of seconds, the ilken had turned to an ice statue.

The other ilkens snarled, recoiling, and five more came out from the underbrush.

One down, seven to go.

She could do this. She didn't need anyone.

She rose her hands, and the silver fire slammed down, attacking the ground. The frost spread through the fprest, climbing up the bodies of the ilken, but a few were too smart for that. While three of them froze into those eerily perfect sculptures, four of them flew up, their wings shoving them up into the sky.

Leta's breath came in sharp, uneven pants. She wasn't a warrior. She couldn't _do_ this, couldn't _fight_ —

Yes, she could, dammit. She had to.

She could feel the airways of the ilkens' lungs. She focused on one to her left, clenching her fist. The ilken scrabbled at its throat, plummeting to the ground as it choked. It landed with a _thump_ in the bushes.

And did not get up.

 _I just choked the air from something's lungs._

There was no time to think. Another two ilken emerged, and Leta drew up water from a puddle by her foot, fashioned an arrow in midair, froze it with her silver fire, and sent it directly for another ilken's heart.

Another one down.

She relished in her silver fire, making a circle around herself, the flames licking at her heels. It didn't freeze her, however; it seemed to _talk_ to her, to whisper in her ear.

It trickled over the ground, freezing and killing, whole trees withering. This was not the petty echo it had been even earlier that day; this fire was a sickness, devouring the life of plants and trees and animals.

 _Sorry, squirrels._

But she wasn't fast enough. Even as she sent arrows of frozen water and choked the air from creatures' lungs, she was inexperienced. It was not second-nature to her; by the time she'd taken down ten of them, there were fifteen more to take care of, fifteen more advancing and creeping closer.

More kept on coming.

She was only one against an infinite number.

Until the arrow thudded into an ilken's heart.

It wasn't made of wind, or ice. It was made of wood.

Within a millisecond, arrows embedded themselves in eight more of the ilken, perfect kill-shots. They dropped to the ground like stones.

Leta turned around, going white. Vaughan stood on the boulder behind her, his quiver half-empty. He grinned at her. "You can't get rid of me that easily, love."

She couldn't stop herself from smiling.

Before she faced the ilken again, three more had dropped dead, arrows poking out from their bodies like a porcupine's quills.

But they didn't stop. There were more of them—more and more and more.

"Vaughan," Leta said, whirling around. "Shift."

He raised a brow at her. "Come again?"

" _Shift,"_ she snarled, wreathing her body in that same crackling silver fire. " _Now."_

His eyes widened, and he disappeared in a flash of light.

" _Go high!"_ Leta shouted, and he did, flapping his wings and ascending higher and higher. Not fast enough: she sent a pulse of wind to kick him up into the sky. Vaughan cawed in annoyance, but she didn't care.

Twenty ilken? Fine.

She'd freeze the whole damn world if she had to.

She unleashed her fire, a wall of it a hundred feet high slicing through the clearing, freezing ilken from where they hovered above the ground, their cries falling silent as they tumbled. _Thud-thud-thud-thud._

They shattered as they hit the soil.

—

Seventeen years ago, Vaughan had been at Mistward.

He'd seen Aelin take down the Valg princes with her golden flame.

And for a second, looking at Leta…

Seeing her wrapped in fire…

He'd thought she _was_ Aelin.

He watched the ice rippling through the forest, trees withering and dying, deer turning to statues, the life leaching out of the woods. He couldn't help thinking that this was not natural. This was a lack of light—a lack of life.

A fire that had no warmth or glow.

 _Aelin, what have you done?_

—

It took only a breath to kill them.

Leta reeled back in the fire, sucking it back into her chest. She was trembling as she brought the fire back in for good, the ilken dead and gone.

The ice immediately began to recede, to melt. But unlike last time, the foliage didn't heal. The water slipped off of the dead bodies, trickled from the tree trunks, but the undergrowth was dead and black.

Somehow she knew that nothing would ever grow here again.

An osprey flapped down beside her. A brief flash of light, and then Vaughan was there, assessing the carnage with an unreadable expression.

"I killed the forest," Leta whispered.

"Not all of it." Vaughan leaned back against the boulder, scrubbing his hand across his face. "It spread maybe three miles."

"I killed three miles of forest," she said, horror sinking in.

"You need to be trained," said Vaughan, swallowing. "As soon as possible."

"Where the hell can I go?" she said, dragging a hand through her hair. "To Doranelle?"

"No. You need to go to Rowan Galathynius."

"Who is Rowan Galathynius?"

"A very old, very powerful Fae," Vaughan answered. "Three centuries. He used to serve with Lorcan and I."

Her heart thudded in her chest. "Where is he?"

"In Orynth, last I heard," he said. "In Terrasen."

She shook her head. "No. No, I'm not going so that you can try to tell me I'm some princess—"

"Look around, Leta," Vaughan snapped, and her mouth shut. "This isn't just about you anymore. If you don't get a handle on this power, you're going to cause some serious destruction. This is only the beginning."

She stared at the ground. It had the consistency of ashes—dead, withered ashes. The kind that had no soil left.

There would be no more life here.

"Take me to Terrasen," she said, sounding hollow even to her own ears.

Vaughan studied her for a moment before nodding.

She reached down and retrieved a handful of frozen ashes. _What have I done?_

—

The next morning, Raiden was shaken awake by a vicious growl.

He jerked upright in his cell, straw digging into his back. The door to his cell swung open, and he saw the cruel Fae from before—Jacan—standing outside, smirking.

Across the corridor, in the place of Fenrys, was the wolf he had seen at first in the throne room, bound and shackled and clothed in blood.

As the wolf turned, revealing the same onyx eyes as Fenrys, Raiden started. The Fae's animal form must've been the canine creature.

Jacan stalked into the iron cage and unlocked Raiden's shackles, dragging him out by his ear. Raiden yelped as the Fae threw him to the ground, kicking him in his ribs.

He heard a dull crack, and the sound of someone screaming. It took Raiden a moment to realize it was the sound of his own voice.

"Let's go," Jacan said, and Raiden dimly saw another two Fae dragging the wolf-Fenrys up the stairs. Jacan did the same with Raiden, his knees colliding painfully with the stone as he was yanked out of the dungeon.

Connall was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed. "Maeve is waiting," he said, words clipped. "Hurry up."

 _What is happening what is this pain oh gods no please help…_

Connall, Jacan, and the rest of the Fae guards dragged wolf-Fenrys and Raiden through the hallways, tiles scraping at Raiden's skin. He tried to get up, to run, but Jacan seemed to find it far more amusing to drag him by his hair.

If Raiden ever got out of here, he was going to shave his head bald. _Fuck,_ it hurt.

They finally reached the doors to the throne room, and Connall threw them open, Jacan and the guards hurling Raiden and Fenrys onto the floor. Raiden heaved, panting, his rib throbbing. " _Motherfucker,"_ he wheezed, his cheek pressed to the ground.

Jacan's boot slammed into his ribs again, eliciting another _crack._ "Language," the Fae said, smiling.

Fenrys snarled.

The throne room was crammed full of Fae, and Raiden's heart stopped in his chest as he beheld the spectacle before him.

Kasper was held down on the floor, ten different Fae holding his chains. His shirt had been shucked off, his back exposed to the audience of murmuring Fae nobles.

His back…

So many scars that Raiden didn't know where to begin to count. Some white slivers, others red pockmarks, some newer, some older. Some infected, some healed, the scar tissue bumped and raised. Lash marks, as if from a whip.

And that was when he saw Maeve standing over Kasper, a whip in her own hand.

There was a commotion out in the hallway, and then Aelin was thrown into the room as well, kicking and thrashing. Her hair was unbound, her eyes wild. But as soon as she came into the throne room with its broken piano and shattered windows, as soon as she saw Kasper, she stopped fighting.

She went bone-white. And whispered, " _No."_

Something in Raiden's chest squeezed.

"It's funny," Maeve said, lips curving back to reveal a smile. "Yesterday, I got word from my loyal guards that our dear prisoner had been taken from his cell. And why?" Her court hung on her every word like dogs begging for table scraps. "So he could be healed." Her eyes rested on Raiden. "Isn't that right."

He didn't say a word. He didn't dare.

"Don't," Aelin rasped, struggling to get forward. By some miracle, she wrenched her way free of her guards. "Please, punish me instead. I was the one. _Please._ "

"No," Kasper said hoarsely, speaking up for the first time. His green eyes were haunted and hollow.

"The boy is right," Maeve said, examining her fingernails as Connall grabbed a fistful of Aelin's hair, slamming her to the ground. _Crack._

Raiden would never be able to hear that sound again without remembering this—without remembering this courtroom, this day.

Fenrys rumbled a warning, snapping his jaws and struggling to get free. "Punishment must be exacted on the guilty party," Maeve said, smiling. She strode forward and hooking her clawed nail underneath Kasper's chin.

She tilted his head up, smirking wickedly. "Everything has a price, dear boy." She gripped his chin, her nails so sharp that they raked trails of blood, and pressed her lips to Kasper's, the kiss brief and territorial.

" _Get the fuck away from him,"_ Aelin snarled, already up again, grappling against her chains.

"I don't think so, little would-be queen," Maeve said boredly. "Connall, restrain her."

Connall smirked. "With pleasure."

He took his dagger from a sheath at his belt and slammed it through the queen's hand, pinning it to the floor. Slicing through layers of bone.

The queen didn't scream. She went white, sweat breaking out at her temples, but she didn't so much as whimper.

Raiden didn't know how he managed. He retched.

"Consider this a warning," Maeve said. "And a reminder. Kasper, dear, your punishment will be fifty lashes. And as for you, Aelin…" Maeve's eyes went cold. "Your punishment will be watching me whip your son."

There was nothing but white noise in Raiden's head.

It was broken by the sound of the first lash of the whip as it sank into Kasper's back.

Aelin screamed—a scream that sliced through Raiden's chest, his heart. A scream that resonated, that carried. A scream that rattled the stars.

—

Kasper was bloodied and broken when he came to Fenrys's cell later that day.

He knew the captain's son was watching, and he didn't particularly care.

"Do it again," said Kasper, looking dead in Fenrys's eye.

The wolf nodded. "Lay down."

In the other cell, Westfall straightened, his back going straight as a ramrod. "What's going on?"

Fenrys shot Kasper an uncertain look, and Kasper shrugged. "Tell him. I don't give a fuck."

His back was still bleeding. He hadn't gotten the lashes bandaged yet.

He still felt Maeve's mouth searing his.

 _Bitch._

"There are old rituals," said Fenrys heavily. "Rituals among the Fae to communicate with each other's mates."

"Soulmates?" Westfall echoed. The boy's face had the pallor of ashes, as if he'd finally realized that he was to blame for the whole damn mess.

"Close." Fenrys took the twig of out of his pocket—the ancient twig, taken from a blessed tree in Doranelle. "Our partner for life in a very basic, very inherent way. There are rituals that you can perform to speak with your mate in your animal form. The rest of the world is blind to you; you can only see your mate. And you can talk to them telepathically."

"You've been trying to tell someone where we are," Westfall breathed.

"The rituals are dangerous," said Fenrys, "because if you try them and your mate is not yet living, you will die." He glared at Kasper, but Kasper didn't care. He'd known the risks when he'd done it the first time. "Kasper was lucky enough to survive."

"So why hasn't anyone come yet?"

"Because, idiot," Kasper snapped, "I don't know who and where they are. I don't know where their allegiance lies. All I know is their name."

 _Syeira._

She was beautiful—lovely. She had a fire and fight in her eyes that he envied. Not that it mattered.

Kasper was going to hell anyway, and soon.

"I don't have much time," Kasper snapped. "Do it, Fenrys. Now."

The old Fae set his jaw but nodded. He took the old twig, already stained with Kasper's blood, and drew a series of words in the Old Language—a spell. Long-forgotten by most, but not by the ancient members of Maeve's cadre.

It was deemed too dangerous to attempt most of the time, but Kasper had long since stopped giving a fuck about danger.

He'd long since stopped giving a fuck about anything.

—

Syeira hadn't come out of her room at all that day.

She stayed beneath her covers, wrapped in blankets.

Weak. Maybe… maybe she was weak.

It was twilight when the snake appeared again, that golden asp coiling on the corner of her blankets.

It didn't slither, or hiss. It didn't do anything but stare at her opaquely.

 _What do you want?_ she thought to it.

The snake didn't answer for a moment. It seemed to droop, as if it were wearied, tired. Exhausted.

 _Tell Rowan Galathynius that he has a son,_ the snake said, and disappeared.

—

 **A/N: Yeah, I know. This chapter was... sad. But I promise things are about to get real badass in Sollemere soon. (Lorcan isn't far-off, and Raiden is actually going to be useful for something. *cinematic gasp*)**

 **REVIEW LIST TIME TO MY LOVELY REVIEWERS WHO ARE ACTUALLY THE BEST!**

 **silverstargenesis**

 **fairymaster**

 **confusion**

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 **You guys are AWESOME! (Also, lol. I didn't mean to be that transparent about Kasper, but it's ok. He's gonna end up being a lil cinnamon roll, I promise.)**

 **Going to write the next chapter right now! *looks up at sky fearfully and clasps hands in prayer***


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Okay. So. This chapter is 13,500 words, and I'm dead. But, on the bright side, new update! :D This week has been kind of... rough for me, and I want to give a special thanks to everyone who reviewed. You guys were a lovely spark in my not-so-lovely week. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you thought!**

 **RECAP: Syeira is having a rough time. She's having visions of a talking snake, her parents have sent her to a different country, and on top of all this, there's something strange going on with a power in the east... A power that many believe to be a fusion of Aelin and Rowan's magic. She let her temper get the best of her, and accidentally/not accidentally cursed the king out in front of his entire court. (Not the smartest move.) The snake was recently revealed to be Kasper, and he communicated with her through an ancient ritual meant to connect mates. (Kasper and Syeira are mates.)**

 **Raiden, on the other hand, is struggling with the new knowledge that Aelin had two children long ago, one of which is roaming the earth somewhere (he thinks/hopes), the other of which is Kasper, imprisoned in Maeve's court. Raiden is stuck in Sollemere, and his prospects of escape are seeming less and less likely by the day, despite the fact that Lorcan Salveterre is hot on Maeve's trail.**

 **Leta has decided to go with Vaughan to Terrasen, and they've formed a tentative alliance. But there's something odd about Vaughan: he claims to have killed his sister, and he seems to be harboring secrets perhaps even darker than Leta's own.**

 **Meanwhile, Syeira, Raiden, Leta, and Kasper aren't the only descendants with strong gifts. Channon and Daleka Ashryver have grown up contentedly at Orynth, and they're about to realize that the world is much, much larger than they once believed.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

CHAPTER 11

Syeira waited until the morning.

She didn't get another wink of sleep that night; all she could see was the snake, somehow looking so _human_ in its dejection. But that was impossible. How could an asp be human?

She watched the sky fade from inky black to periwinkle, counting her breaths, the cracks in the ceiling, the threads in her sheets, _anything._ Nothing worked. She wished that the asp would come back, wished that she could talk to it, demand more information. Demand something more than the word _son_ to put before Rowan.

Not that she owed Rowan anything. He was a dickhead. _Not strong enough_ —she'd show him strong.

She waited until the clock on the mantlepiece read seven o'clock before dragging herself out of bed, dressing on her own in another scarlet dress. She left her ebony curls streaming down her back, staring hard at her reflection as she applied concealer to the bags beneath her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks.

People said she looked like her father, save for her amber eyes. Once Syeira had felt pride at the comparisons, before she realized that she would never be like him in the ways that mattered—that the similarities ended there, at her bone structure and black hair.

She left her room, descending a stairwell to the main corridor. A maid bustled by, carrying a basket of laundry, and Syeira snagged her sleeve. "Excuse me," she said. "How do you get to the breakfast hall?"

The maid blinked. "Right down this hallway, down three flights of stairs, and a left," she said, and took off.

Syeira stared after her disgustedly. What was it with this castle and the lack of respect?

She followed the maid's instructions, however, and though she got lost a few times, she eventually made it to the breakfast hall. The doors were propped open, two guards flanking either side. This early in the morning, it was mostly empty, the three long oak tables spattered with nobles irregularly. The room seemed too large, the stone walls peppered with tapestries of silver and green that loomed up like ethereal spirits.

But the king was there, and that was all that mattered.

Syeira started for him, but halted. Rowan looked…

Hollow. Dark circles lingered under his eyes, and his mouth was weighted by worry lines. There was a book set in front of him, but he didn't seem to be reading it. He barely touched his food.

For the first time, she noticed the wedding band on his left hand. People had wanted him to remarry, to continue the line, but he'd refused. He'd said that the line of inheritance would continue through Aedion Ashryver's family when he died, and that was that.

Brannon's line… Brannon's line was thought to be gone, anyway. Until recently.

She set her mouth and stalked down the breakfast hall. Heads whipped, hostile glares piercing her skin. Apparently, the citizens of Terrasen hadn't cared for what she'd said to their king the previous day.

Her stomach twisted. Her parents would hear of that, no doubt, and then her father and mother would have her head. Syeira pushed the thought from her mind.

She marched straight up to the dais, skirts rippling around her calves. Rowan's guard moved as if to protect him, but the king raised a hand, a silent order to back down. Rowan showed no emotion. He didn't even move as she faced him over the table, their gazes clashing.

"You have a son," Syeira said.

—

Kasper was avoiding his mother.

He didn't know how to face her. It was his own damn fault that he'd been careless enough to get caught with Westfall; it was his own damn fault that he hadn't told his mother about the way that Maeve had been eying him lately, the way that she'd been scraping her claws down his skin…

His hands balled into fists. He was on the roof again, the sunrise streaking the landscape of Sollemere with faded rose. He had to get the lash marks on his back tended to soon, or infection would set in, and yet…

And yet.

He had no idea who or where Syeira was. He didn't know whether she'd be able to tell Rowan at all. Kasper should've lingered, should've tried to ask her where and who she was again, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He should've tried, but he was so tired lately. So worn down and beaten.

Maeve had started the whippings when he was a child. He'd been six the first time, caught sneaking an extra roll at dinner.

Gods, it had burned. It had gotten easier, the pain more expected, easier to bear, but those first few times, he'd _screamed._

It was worse when they beat Aelin. Kasper preferred the lashes himself.

His mother was the only reason he was still here at all. He'd considered ending his own life, digging a dagger into his own skin, but he wouldn't leave her. She'd sacrificed everything for him—did everything that she could to protect him, to make his life more bearable. When he was little, she spent what little free time she had sewing scraps of cloth together to make him toys; teaching him how to wind string around his fingers to make yarn shapes.

Kasper wanted to tell her that he wasn't worth it.

When he was little, he'd slept in the room beneath the cemetery with her. Guards came in to take away the candles every night, and they'd suffocated in darkness together, his mother's arms wrapped tightly around him.

To this day, it was the only place he'd ever felt safe. Maeve had taken him away when he'd gotten to the age of ten—she'd separated them, took the only solace Maeve had found in the dark from her.

"Tell me a story," he'd whisper.

She did. She told him about a little girl living in a castle—a princess named Fireheart. She told him about a library on fire and a bad king and a guardian angel named Elena.

It was years before Kasper realized his mother was telling him her own story; unraveling her tale piece by piece.

She used to skip over the bad parts, but as Kasper got older, he asked that she tell them. And she did, every last bit, every last piece. The more sordid, scandalous parts she kept to herself until he was old enough to understand and absorb them, but she told him about plummeting into a river, about waking up in the arms of an assassin.

Kasper's favorite stories were about Rowan.

"Tell me about Dad," Kasper would say.

And her throat would bob. Most of the time she'd say, "Not tonight."

But sometimes… Sometimes she'd tell him.

"He was very strong," she'd say.

"And kind?" Kasper knew all the parts by heart.

"Yes," she'd murmur. "That too."

So the story went: a rhythm, a dance the two of them played, a script to which they knew all the lines.

"He was a warrior," she'd say. "He was fierce and brave. You have his eyes"—here, she'd tap his eyelids, stroke her thumb across his cheekbones—"and his nose."

"How did you meet?" Kasper would ask, even though he already knew.

"I came to a faraway land to learn how to fight," his mother would say. "Your father was supposed to teach me how to use my magic."

"Did you like each other?"

"No." His mother almost laughed, but didn't. His mother never laughed. "We hated each other. I thought he was a brutish buzzard, and he thought I was a brat." Her voice got tight at this part of the story, as if swept up with the remembering and the pain.

"How come you fell in love?"

A pause. Always a pause. "Because he was wonderful," she'd whisper hoarsely, gripping Kasper tighter. "Funny and kind and honest and smart. Harsh on the outside, but soft on the inside."

"How come he fell in love with you?"

Another pause. "I don't know," his mother would say, and that would be the end of it.

Kasper knew he was powerful. He could feel his power sometimes, shifting and slithering beneath his skin. But it was always blocked off, submerged by his iron chains. He and his mother had tried to escape before, but it was hopeless. Weakened and without magic, pitted against a force of forty powerful Fae, it was impossible.

The sun peeked up over the horizon, the buildings a black silhouette against the ice-blue horizon. Kasper sighed with resignation and got to his feet. It was time to see his mother.

—

Channon Ashryver could shift into anything, but one of his favorite forms was a house fly.

It was strange, he supposed, from an outside standpoint. But shifting into a fly made it easy to eavesdrop, especially when his parents refused to let him in on meetings.

Channon had dirt on most of the castle. He knew, for example, that Lady Elia was addicted to opium, even if her fiancee didn't. He knew that Ren Allsbrook was head-over-heels in love with Lacey Summers, the daughter of a wealthy merchant from Suria. (Lacey hadn't the slightest idea.) He knew that Lord Auxley was sleeping with his wife's lady's maid, and that Lady Auxley was sleeping with her husband's valet.

Channon was good at collecting secrets and better at keeping them. People around the castle called him a demon—likely due to his disturbingly adept abilities with blackmail and his habit of setting things on fire at random intervals—and shied away from his shape-shifting abilities, but Channon had long-since stopped caring.

He was a prankster, agile in the art of mayhem. All he needed was the right moment and scheme (gifting a wyvern egg to Lady Meredith on her birthday when he knew full-well that it would hatch in the middle of the festivities; substituting dishes in the kitchen for putrid-smelling snail cakes) and he sent the whole castle into an uproar.

His mother told him that he was getting too old for this nonsense, that he was twelve, nearly thirteen, but he didn't care. In his opinion, the rest of the world took things far too seriously.

Channon buzzed about the windowsill in his parents' office, listening to his mother and father argue. Their arguments were infrequent but explosive—his father had once slept in his office for three weeks straight when Channon was six.

"I'm going to kill that girl," Aedion Ashryver said now, slumping in his seat.

Channon knew who he was talking about. Syeira. Channon was indignant himself; he liked Rowan. The king always gave him splendid birthday presents, and when the rest of the castle seemed content to make Channon an outsider due to his unique propensities, the king seated him at the dinner table directly to his right on purpose, just to make a point. Rowan _always_ made a point of including him, even if he was only a raucous upstart of a twelve-year-old.

"She's young," Lysandra said, rolling her eyes.

"She's going to get impaled," his father snapped. "What was she thinking?"

"It was the lack of it that led us to this situation in the first place, Aed," his mother said, her lips twitching. "I don't think cursing at a king in front of his entire court implies a great deal of forethought."

His father groaned, leaning his forehead against his desk and slamming it three or four times against the wood. _Thump, thump, thump._ "It isn't funny." His words were muffled.

"It's a little funny. You just have to… take a step back to see it."

"Gods help us."

His mother sighed, walking over and wrapping her arms around his father from behind, hands flattening against his abdomen. He leaned back in his chair, and she rested her chin in his hair. "We're going to have to write to Dorian and Manon."

"Dorian. I can't handle Manon right now."

His mother took a seat on the edge of his father's desk, facing him. "What are you going to say?"

"I don't know," his father said, yanking open a drawer with savage force. "Your daughter said 'fuck you' to the king of Terrasen yesterday? Is there any good way to break that kind of news?"

"I'd heard of her temper," his mother said contemplatively, propping her chin on her first. "But I didn't think it was that bad."

His father snorted. "That's an understatement."

"She'll grow up eventually."

"Or so we hope."

"Please." His mother waved a hand. "I know I was a demon at fourteen, and I can tell you that Aelin was, too."

Channon's head perked up, and his buzzing stilled.

His father's shoulders caved, as always when the queen was mentioned, but one corner of his lips tugged up with a wry, bitter humor. "Yeah?"

"She was Hellas incarnate." His mother shuddered. "Terrified the wits out of me. Terrified the wits out of everyone."

"That never really changed."

"I think she got more terrifying, actually," his mother said, and though her words were humorous, there was a sad undertone to them that gave Channon pause.

He didn't know the queen—hadn't ever met her. But he liked to think that through the stories and tales that had been passed down to him, he had some inkling of what she had been like.

His father exhaled, closing his eyes, and his mother spoke again. "Do you think…" Her voice had gotten uncharacteristically unsure, trembling a bit. "Do you think she's alive?"

"Yes."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I don't know," said his father. "I just am. Rowan would've felt it if she did… die." He fixed his attention on his desk, yanking out a sheet of parchment and an ink pen. " _Carranam_ and mate bonds, remember? Not to mention the blood oath."

"I remember." His mother dragged a hand through her hair, fingers untangling her mass of chestnut curls.

A knock sounded at the door, and Channon folded his wings. He didn't know what to think of the Crochan princess. He thought she was rude, and somewhat bitchy, but he didn't tend to judge people on first impressions. He'd seen her briefly over the years, and she'd been nice enough then, if somewhat brash and blunt.

Channon liked bluntness. He'd rather have harsh truths than soft lies.

His mother went over to the door and opened it. A page stood outside, holding a letter. "It's from the castle in Rifthold," he said. "From His Majesty King Dorian Havilliard and Her Majesty Queen Manon Crochan, and Captain Chaol Westfall and—"

"Nesryn, let me guess," said his mother. "Come in. We have a note that we have to send off, too. We'll have it for you in a moment."

The page hesitated in the doorway. "The man I took the letter from seemed to think it had… disturbing information inside."

His mother frowned. "Oh?"

"You're dismissed for the moment," Channon's father said, appearing at his mother's elbow. The door closed quietly but firmly, and his mother and father exchanged glances. "Open it, Lys."

His mother did, her hands shaking slightly. It was an official envelope, the wax embossed with the seal of the King of Adarlan. Channon buzzed about excitedly, his curiosity piqued. More secrets, no doubt.

His mother withdrew a thick, creamy paper from the envelope. She skimmed it, and as she did so, her eyes widened. His father tapped his foot impatiently. "Well?" he said. "What does it say?"

"Raiden Westfall never showed up in Antica," his mother said.

His father went still. "What?"

"He was supposed to get there a few days ago, but he never showed," she said. "There's been no sign of him. His family's worried to bits—says here that Chaol and Nesryn are going out of their minds with worry."

"It could be nothing," his father said. "Doesn't he have a reputation?"

"You had a reputation once too, Aed."

"That was different." His father dragged a hand through his hair. "Could be the boy just decided to get on a different boat."

"Yes," his mother said reluctantly. "That's true."

"Isn't this the boy that Syeira was seeing?"

"I think so." His mother met his father's gaze. "The timing is strange, don't you think? Considering… everything?"

"Considering Rowan and Aelin's possible child?" His father choked out a laugh. "Lys, the timing of _everything_ is strange. Raiden Westfall is the last thing I want to be worrying about right now—"

Another knock sounded. His father exhaled furiously, stalking over. "Didn't we tell the page to wait a gods-damned minute?" he demanded as he wrenched the door open forcefully.

But while the page stood at the threshold, he was also accompanied by Elide Lochan.

Channon perked up. Things were beginning to get interesting, if Elide's expression was anything to judge by: her skin had gone the color of double-burnt ashes, and she was gripping her cane as if faced with certain death.

"Elide," his mother said, somewhat alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"It's Syeira," Elide began.

His father cursed explosively. "Again? _Again?_ I'm going to _kill_ Dorian and Manon—"

"I recommend not trying to kill Manon," his mother said to no one in particular. "Doesn't seem like an intelligent course of action. What with the iron teeth and all."

"Not just Syeira," the Lady of Perranth said. "It's her and Rowan."

His father went stock-still. "What," he whispered, "did she _do_?"

"She told Rowan…" Elide took a deep breath. "She told Rowan that he had a son. Apparently. I've all just gotten this from a messenger in the Great Hall, who told me that Rowan and Syeira are having a dreadful row—"

"It is _eight o'clock in the morning_!" his father shouted, slamming his fist down on his desk. "It is _too damn early_!"

"Syeira," said his mother lightly, "is a morning person, it seems."

His father snarled and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, shrugging it on. He slammed his sword into its sheath, strapping knives to his forearms. Channon's mother raised a brow. "Really, Aed? We aren't preparing for battle."

"Oh, yes we are," his father said grimly. He started to walk out the door and paused. "Channon, follow me."

Channon started and froze.

"I know it's you there," his father said. "The fly in the corner. You started buzzing every time something interesting happened."

His mother seemed to be trying to suppress a smile.

Reluctantly Channon melted out of the shadows, his limbs lengthening. In a matter of moments, he went from a house fly no bigger than a coin to a tall, lanky boy with dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, vivid Ashryver eyes, olive skin, and a crooked nose.

"Sorry," he said.

"You're not sorry in the least," his father said with a snort. "Come on."

Channon blinked in surprise. "You want me to come with you?"

"Syeira likes you," his father said. "Maybe she'll listen to your reasoning, if no one else's." He propped the door open with his foot. "Hurry. Gods know Dallie is probably already in the Great Hall."

—

Dallie was already in the Great Hall.

She was an early riser. She was only nine, and she'd never quite gotten over the wake-up-at-five-am phase from her childhood. Daleka Ashryver loved the sunrise: there was something silent and pensive about the mornings, as if dawn held its breath before exhaling softly into day.

This, she knew, wide-eyed in the corner of the Great Hall, was no soft exhale. This was a windstorm. (Literally.)

Usually around this time of day she'd be on her way to the library, where she'd spend hours being drilled by her tutors, or—if it was a good day—head to the training grounds. Her father had begun to let her train, gifting her with a wooden sword for her last birthday, and she was already better than soldiers twice her size.

Dallie didn't have the shifting powers of her brother, but she did have ironclad determination and a fair share of Ashryver stubbornness. She also, her father suspected, had a little of his Fae heritage. She'd always been able to smell things other people couldn't, and not just the scent of rotten fish in the kitchens or dried perfume on a lady's skin. She could smell _fear,_ and desire, and happiness. Even sorrow.

She liked reading people.

It didn't take a genius with demi-Fae senses to know that Princess Syeira and King Rowan were angry.

"You son of a _bitch_!" Syeira shouted, hurling a teapot at the king. He sidestepped it easily, and it collided with the wall, shattering in a fountain of hot water.

Dallie felt like a deer caught in the headlights. She'd known that things were about to get unpleasant from the moment that Syeira had come into the Great Hall, but she hadn't known just how unpleasant until she'd heard Syeira talk to the king.

 _You have a son._

It was a wonder Rowan hadn't killed the princess on the spot.

"Get the fuck out of my way, princess," Rowan snarled.

"Try me," Syeira shot back.

For a minute it hadn't looked like Rowan and Syeira would engage in mortal combat. After Syeira had first said those words— _you have a son_ —Rowan had just looked at her blankly. His fork had frozen in midair.

"What was that?" Rowan had said.

"You have a son, you idiot," Syeira had said. "If you'd listen to me for a second, maybe you would've gotten it through your thick head the first time."

From there, Rowan had insulted Syeira, and things had cartwheeled rather spectacularly downhill. Dallie, ever the keen observer, noticed that the Crochan princess didn't take kindly to being insulted. She was, Dallie thought, a smidge spoiled.

Winds rippled through the room, but this time Syeira seemed to be better prepared, because she threw out a hand and sent a volley of ice arrows for the king.

Rowan didn't so much as blink. They bounced off an invisible shield, shattering instantaneously.

Dallie almost felt bad for her. Almost.

There was a _bang_ as the doors were thrown open, and Dallie's parents, brother, and Lady Elide came into the room. Her father's face was dark as summer thunder.

"Syeira, _enough_!" he thundered, and for once, both the king and the princess fell silent.

Her father made his way to the table, his mother following. Channon spotted Daleka hovering in a corner and sighed. "Come on, Dallie," Channon said, extending a hand.

"I didn't know what to do," she said.

"I know." Channon eyed the princess with an unreadable emotion. "I'm not really sure we know what to do with her either."

It wasn't that. Dallie had already firmly decided that she didn't like Syeira, but she supposed now was not the time to clarify.

"Do you have any basis," her father said, "for telling Rowan he has a son, save for your injured pride? Any at all?"

"I got another visitation last night," said Syeira, raising her chin. "He said, and I quote: _Tell Rowan Galathynius that he has a son._ "

"'He'?" her mother repeated, taking her stance at her father's side. "So the snake is a male now?"

"He speaks with a male voice, so yes," Syeira said. "I won't stop talking to it. I want to know where it's getting its information."

"So do I," Channon muttered, steering Dallie near their parents.

Her father put up a hand. "The information, Syeira, is appreciated. Your method of diverging it, however…" His lips thinned. "I don't know how your father and mother handled these kinds of things in Rifthold, but here's how I'm going to handle it here. You're going to the kitchens."

Syeira went very pale. "What?"

"Don't worry," her father said, an amused gleam in his eye that Dallie knew well. "We'll pack your fine dresses and belongings away where they'll be safe. You'll be issued a maid's uniform, and you'll sleep with the rest of the kitchen staff. You'll spend the next week doing dishes and laboring over a cutting board."

Syeira looked as if she might keel over. Dallie was half-inclined to fetch her some smelling salts. "A _week_?" the Crochan princess sputtered. "But—but—my _hands_!"

"What about them?"

"They'll be ruined!"

At her father's left, Lady Elide held up her own scarred palms. "Is that so?"

"Go up to your room," her father said. "That's an order. I'll send someone up to deal with the particulars in an hour or so. As soon as I get the free time."

Syeira stared at her father. "You can't be serious. I'm royalty. I don't work in the _kitchens._ "

"My wife did," the king said, speaking up for the first time since Dallie's father had entered the hall.

" _What?"_

"My wife," Rowan said, a muscle in his jaw pulsing, "worked in the kitchens. Without complaint, I might add, and for weeks at a time in Wendlyn. Her mother before her did the same thing."

"To the point," Dallie's father said, "until you can learn to stop being such a thorn in all of our sides, that's where I'll be sending you. Every night, I'll have a page update you on any further developments. You can report any other visions to him. You will not seek out Rowan, Lysandra, myself, or any other member of this castle save for that very unlucky page. Do I make myself clear?"

"My parents—"

"Will thank us," Dallie's mother interrupted. "You forget that we know them. And I'm rather inclined to think that if Dorian knew the particulars of your language since your arrival, he'd be furious. Not to mention what your mother would do."

Her mouth worked. "I hate all of you."

"I'd care," her father said, "but you've made it difficult for me to feel anything for you other than constant irritation. Get out."

Syeira growled and stomped down from the dais, storming out of the hall. The doors clanged shut behind her.

"Now that that's dealt with," her father said. "Rowan, there's something I need to speak with you about. Privately."

The king was gray, tired. The fight with Syeira had put some color back in his cheeks, but now he looked… Empty, Dallie thought. She felt a tug of pity for the king. He was an uncle of sorts to her, and he always remembered that she didn't like chocolate and preferred fruit sweets at dinner.

This, to Dallie, put him in the highest esteem.

"Meet me in my study in fifteen minutes," Rowan said, nodding. His eyes flicked to Channon and Daleka. "Deal with your children first."

Both Dallie and her brother shrank back as their parents turned to face them. Her mother sighed. "Channon, you're going to muck out the stables this afternoon, understand?"

"Oh, Mom," her brother protested.

"I don't want to hear it. You know the penalties for eavesdropping. And Dallie, dear—" Her mother hesitated. "You have syrup on your chin." Her mother grabbed a napkin off a table and wiped off the mess even as Dallie squirmed. "Go to the library today. Your tutors are waiting for you."

"Why can't I come with you and Dad instead?"

"Our conversation is not going to be fun," her mother said, and Dallie realized it wasn't just the king that was tired. Her mother looked wrung-out as a washrag. "Believe me. If we could swap places, I would."

—

Vaughan was a hummer. It drove Leta crazy.

Neither of them had spoken much since the incident in the woods the previous day, though they'd put some miles behind them before resting for the night. Leta had hardly gotten any sleep at all; she'd been haunted by phantom forms lurking in the corner of her eye, rustling in the underbrush.

She needed civilization. She needed sane people.

They sat over the fire that morning in silence. Vaughan hummed, cleaning off his dirtied arrows from the night before.

"Enough with the singing," she blurted out.

Vaughan stopped and regarded her with a cocked brow. "What was that?"

"You're humming," she said. "And you need to not be."

"Do you have something against humming?"

"It's annoying."

"That's not very specific," said Vaughan, flashing his teeth at her in a feral grin.

She picked up a twig and snapped it. "I need a bath," she announced.

"I know. You smell like a sewer."

"So do you," she shot back, though this was not precisely true. Despite days of travel, Vaughan still smelled like cloves and smoke. It was almost as irritating as his humming. "There's a stream a mile off. I can sense it."

"There's a town a half a day off," he countered, shoving his arrows back into his quiver. "We can stop there. You need some clothes, anyhow. You look ridiculous in my jacket and Salvaterre's shirt, and they're ruined from your tidal wave disasters anyhow."

"I don't have any money."

"Luckily for you, I do." Vaughan slid the quiver over his back and studied the pale sky, shading his eyes. "If you carry us with the wind, we can probably be there in an hour." A thought seemed to occur to him, and his hand dropped. "How are you feeling, anyway?"

"Cold," she said. "And smelly."

He laughed. "No. I meant how does your _magic_ feel."

She tested it, curious. "I don't know. I feel tired."

"Tired?" he prompted. "That's it?"

"Yes, tired. What else do you want from me?"

"Oh, there are many things I want from you," he said cheekily, and she realized her mistake too late. "A sweeping declaration of thanks, or love… This is very romantic, you know. Me playing the role of the dashing suitor—"

"I wish you'd dash away," she replied. "I'll get us to the town, Vaughan. Just point me in the right direction."

"As you wish, love," he said, dimpling, and shifted faster than she could smack him.

—

The town was quaint but prosperous. Vaughan told her that they were perhaps another day or two from the north coast of Wendlyn; from there they could get on a boat heading around the coast.

Something about the route they'd taken didn't seem quite right to Leta, and she resolved to check their path on a map when the reached the village.

The village was situated on the western edge of the Cambrians; they were finally reaching the end of the mountains. It was a trade town, with a saloon, a few shops, and an inn. Vaughan rented her a room in the inn where she could take a hot bath, which seemed a marvel to Leta. She'd never taken a hot bath in her life.

She found that it was a marvelous experience. The hot water caressed her skin, scalding it, wiping away the layers of grime and dirt. She ended up drawing two baths; one just to strip away the outer layer of dirt, another to really _wash._ There was cheap shampoo and conditioner and a rough bar of soap. She dug it into her skin, cleaning out her pores.

By the time she finished, her hair was no longer dirtied and dull but silver and shining, hanging in a thick curtain to her waist.

Vaughan had given her a few coins to buy some clothes, and she'd purchased a tunic, a pair of leggings, and some new boots that didn't have soles that flopped and squished with each step. She braided her hair neatly and studied her reflection.

Leta had never really cared about being pretty before—there had been other things to worry about. But it was nice to see what her face looked like beneath the mask of mud, what her form looked like beneath Lorcan's baggy shirt.

She was thin—too thin. She'd never really developed; she'd had too little food, and she had no breasts or monthly cycles. Her bones protruded from her tanned skin, and her lack of curves was somewhat appalling. She had a boyish figure—if she cut off her hair, she might even pass for a man.

But still, she had to admit there was something nice about the shape of her face, the fullness of her lips. She fingered her hair and smiled. Vanity was a luxury only the very lucky could afford. It was a nice feeling.

She smoothed down her tunic. She'd have to head to the washerwoman; she'd given her Vaughan's coat to wash. She doubted the woman would be able to preserve his scent, but at least she'd get it clean.

She opened the door to her room, sighing, and collided with Vaughan in the hallway.

"Careful, there," he said, steadying her. He took a step back.

He'd rented a room as well—he really had needed a bath—and his hair was slightly damp, his skin clean and shining. Their eyes met for a moment, and she felt self-conscious, picking at the hem of her sleeve. He'd shaved, she noticed. He had a strong jawline.

"Well," he said after a brief pause. "You don't smell like a sewer anymore."

She forced a laugh. "That's… that's good."

"It's very good."

Awkward silence.

"I'm going to get your coat," Leta said at the same time Vaughan said, "I'm going to go get a squirrel."

She reacted first. "You're going to get a what?"

"A squirrel," he said. "You know. Because… there's a surplus. In the… trees."

"There's a surplus," she repeated. "In the trees."

"I'm hungry, and I don't feel like paying."

"I didn't know ospreys ate squirrels."

"They do. They're delicious."

Leta smiled. "Alright."

"So that's what I'm going to do."

"Get a squirrel," she supplied.

"Right. Get a squirrel."

More awkward silence.

Vaughan paused. "You look… great."

"Great?" she echoed, a smile tugging at her lips.

"You don't smell like a sewer anymore."

"You said that already."

"Oh."

"Oh."

She hugged her arms to her chest. "See you back at the inn in fifteen minutes?"

"That," Vaughan said, pointing to her, "is a good idea." He headed for the stairs, but paused on the first step. "Love."

"Love what?"

"That is a good idea, love," he enunciated. "I was calling you 'love.' Because I do that."

She scowled. "I thought we went over this."

He scratched the back of his neck. "I… We did. I just like calling you that."

"Why?" Leta asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Because you're lovely," Vaughan said, and bounded down the stairs. She could've been wrong, but she swore she could have seen him flush.

—

The washerwoman was able to clean Vaughan's jacket, but she didn't manage to preserve his smoke-and-cloves smell, which was just as well. Leta went to a shop a few doors down and bought a coat for herself, one that fit. She'd give Vaughan his coat back, and this time, he'd have no reason to refuse.

Leta bought a few other essentials. She got a pack, and a few sleeping rolls, as well as some salted pork and a canteen of water. She intended to head back to the inn as soon as she had the bare bones in place, but paused when she saw a map of Wendlyn on the wall.

It was as she'd suspected. Vaughan had taken her the long way to Varese: he'd led her north, likely intending to loop around before connecting with the river. He'd wanted more time to change her mind, no doubt.

Her hands balled into fists. Jackass.

 _You agreed to go with him to Terrasen, didn't you?_ a voice whispered in her head. _How much do you really know about him?_

But Leta… She wanted to trust him. Desperately. She'd never trusted anyone before, except for Lorcan, but even that was minimal.

She felt lonely. Maybe he was made of lies. But was that so bad? Maybe it was better to live a nice lie than welcome a hard truth.

When she did meet him at the inn, she didn't bring up the part about the map. She also didn't tell Vaughan that she'd bought a knife and stuck it in her boot, just in case.

"Where do we go from here?" she said instead.

"To the northern coast," he said. "We can get on a ship to Terrasen from there."

She nodded. "Alright."

And that was that.

—

"No," Syeira said. "No. This is not happening."

The kitchens were the actual bowels of hell.

 _Bedlam_ : that was the word that popped into Syeira's head first. It was sweltering, simmering with heat from the clay ovens. The kitchen was huge, packed with at least twenty or thirty maids, cooks, and footmen, all scurrying about with panicked expressions. The head cook, a plump, red-faced woman, was screeching at the top of her lungs, waving a wooden spoon as if it were a weapon of mass destruction.

Syeira, standing on the threshold to the kitchens in an oversized maid's dress, her hair knotted up neatly, was beginning to regret her life choices.

A maid named Bernie had brought Syeira down to the kitchens. She was surly-faced, glowering at the princess. Syeira had tried to glean some details about the kind of work she'd be doing for the next week, but all she got in response from Bernie was a _hmph._ A series of them, actually; neverending grunts and huffs and haws.

Bernie dragged Syeira to the head cook, navigating her ample waist through the maze of flailing limbs. The head cook was surly-faced and glowering, tendrils of white hair curling in the humidity.

"Ma'am," Bernie shouted over the din. "The princess has arrived."

The head cook whipped around, a drop of soup on the edge of her spoon splattering on Syeira's cheek. Her jaw dropped, and she was about to give the cook a proper lashing, but the woman beat her to it. "This thing?" the cook yelled, slapping a lid on a pot. "She wouldn't know how to handle a knife!"

"I can hold a knife," Syeira said angrily.

"Don't you talk back to me, miss," the cook snapped. "Or I'll have you doing all the dishes by yourself, you hear?"

"The general says she's to be here for a week," Bernie shouted.

"I know what the general said. I got the message." The head cook jerked another lid up from another pan and snarled at the steam that billowed around her face, roping in thick streams of vapor. "Is she to stay here, too?"

Bernie nodded. "Aye."

"Taking up space in my rooms," the cook barked. "Talk to Mistress Marye about her lodging. That's not my concern."

"She's to start right away."

The cook threw a look of pure loathing and disgust at Syeira, who reared back as if she'd been slapped. "Dishes," she said after a brief hesitation. "I don't trust her with none of my cooking. I'll be serving His Majesty burnt filth if I let her anywhere near my stove."

Syeira's eyes widened. "Ex _cuse_ me?"

The cook jerked her head toward a pile of dishes in the sink. They were festering, sauces slipping and dripping from the crockery. A heap of sponges was set on the counter to the right, and a large plastic bucket full of pinkish dish soap. "Do them," she said. " _All_ of them. And make sure they're squeaky clean, hear?"

"But—"

"No buts," the cook snapped. At her side, Bernie had an evil smile of glee, as if she were highly enjoying this. "Now. You're taking up my precious time."

Syeira balled her fists. "You'll regret this, you know."

"Will I?" The cook dipped her spoon in the pot and stirred, apparently unconcerned what she would or would not regret. "That's unfortunate."

Syeira wanted to say something more, but she didn't. Instead, she gave both Bernie and the cook the dirtiest look she could muster and stomped over to the sink. She set her jaw and yanked on the taps, hot water pouring out. They wanted to condemn her to the kitchens? Fine. She'd be the best scullery maid they'd ever seen.

—

Even if the rest of his current predicament was nightmarish, Raiden thought, at least he had Fenrys.

There was something about the Fae that comforted him. When the guards had dragged them back down to the dungeons, they'd shoved Raiden and Fenrys into the same cell, shackling them both roughly. The cell was crowded now, stuffed to maximum occupancy, but it was nice to have someone else at Raiden's right, just inches away.

He couldn't help being faintly intrigued by the wolf-Fae. Fenrys obviously had loyalties to Aelin, and probably knew more than he was telling. And then there was the way that Maeve had eyed him, and hadn't Fenrys said that his brother was Connall?

Neither of them had spoken after they'd returned to their chains. Raiden had been too stunned, and Fenrys had seemed wearied, his shoulders slumping at an alarming angle. At some point, Raiden had fallen asleep with his head on the wolf's shoulder, dozing off fitfully.

For whatever reason, Fenrys hadn't shoved him off.

They sat in the cell the next day, warm sunlight filtering in weakly through the bars near the ceiling. They were slumped on the floor, arms manacled to the chains on the wall.

"So," Raiden said. His voice was rusty from disuse; it was the first time he'd spoken since Maeve had slammed them back in their iron prison. "Aelin has a son."

"Aelin has a daughter and a son," Fenrys corrected. He'd gotten new welts on his face from yesterday's events; his lip was cut and swollen, trickling blood.

"And one of them is still out there."

"I think." Fenrys shifted his position, his chains rattling. "I hope."

"For what it's worth, it was… it was a really decent thing to do. Saving Aelin's daughter, I mean." Raiden leaned his head back against the wall, meeting Fenrys's gaze. "It was brave. Selfless."

"I'm neither of those things, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"I mean it," he insisted. "My father's like that. He always does the right thing."

"Your father is a good man," said Fenrys. "At least, from what I've heard. But he hasn't always done the right thing. Nobody's entirely good or bad. Most people are somewhere in-between."

"Except for Maeve," Raiden said. "She can rot in hell."

Fenrys laughed, throwing Raiden a surprised, appreciative look. "For a scrawny human—"

"I'm not scrawny," Raiden protested.

"—you're surprisingly adept at humorously stating the obvious."

"It's a talent I take very seriously," he said. "I hone it devotedly."

Fenrys chuckled, and they lapsed into faint silence.

"I'm not scrawny," Raiden said.

The Fae rolled his eyes. "Here we go—"

"I'm just slightly _thin_ ," he said.

"Captain's son, you're nothing but skin and bones."

"Don't call me that."

"What? Captain's son?"

"Call me by my name," he said. "Raiden."

Fenrys cocked a brow. "Who knew desperate prisoners were so particular about their nicknames?" he mused.

"I figure I'll cling to what little I _can_ control."

"You don't have to worry," Fenrys said abruptly. "Kasper and Aelin are going to get you out of here. When they say they'll do something, they do it."

Raiden paused. "What is Kasper… like?"

The breath came out of the wolf in a _whoosh._ "He's brave," he said finally. "And selfless. He inherited Aelin's unfortunate trait of caring for the dirt underneath his fingernails more than he cares for himself."

Raiden drew his knees up to his chest. "Rowan's like that too."

Fenrys stiffened. "What?"

"Rowan," Raiden repeated. "He's like that too. From what I remember about Morath, anyway. He was always concerned about other people's safety—he focused on helping Dorian and Aedion and Lysandra, even Manon. My parents, even though he doesn't particularly care for my father."

"He didn't use to be that way," Fenrys said quietly. "Not before Aelin."

"I guess that's what it means to love someone," Raiden said contemplatively. "You don't come out the same as how you went in."

Fenrys shook his head and muttered something like _mortals,_ but he seemed gratified all the same, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Without knowing why, Raiden leaned against the Fae again. Fenrys's body was warm, somewhat comforting, and beneath the Fae's scent of dried blood and sweat, there was something sweeter: mown grass; a maple tree in May. Syeira smelled like winter, like fresh snow and the cold silence that came with the somber ice and gray. Fenrys smelled like spring—like new shoots of grass and damp, loamy earth.

Fenrys glanced down at Raiden, but the Fae didn't appear particularly surprised. Instead, he slunk down a bit further to make it more comfortable. Without knowing what he was doing, Raiden scooted closer, his hip pressing against Fenrys's. A brief heat flared in his stomach, but he pushed it away, irritated.

Instead, he furrowed his brow, a sudden thought occurring to him. "You know," he said slowly, "I heard somewhere that Fae have supernatural strength. Why haven't you all just… I don't know, broken the chains?"

"They're inscribed with Wyrdmarks," Fenrys explained. He lifted up his arm to demonstrate, and something glinted on the metal—an etched symbol. "In order to break them, they'd need to be inscribed with more Wyrdmarks."

Raiden jolted. "Wait. That's it?"

"That's what?"

"That's all you need to get free?" he said. "You said that the twins—Aelin and Rowan's kids—had power like you'd never seen before. If I somehow got the chains off, do you think you could get out of here?"

Fenrys snorted. "There's no way you could get them off, Raiden."

Raiden sat up straight, heart thudding. "I'm fluent in Wyrdmarks."

The world went still.

"Fluent?" Fenrys croaked. "Completely?"

"My father made me learn," said Raiden. "I know a little bit of all magic that can be taught. He gave me some preliminary instruction, and I took it upon myself to learn the language. I've never been much good at anything except for memorizing. I know all the Wyrdmarks, and I can read the inscriptions. If I had your blood and a little bit of time, I could trace the runes to get your cuffs and chains off. Aelin and Kasper's too."

Fenrys sucked in a sharp breath. He took Raiden by his shoulders. "Are you serious?" His onyx eyes glittered, full of trepidation and tentative hope. "You can get these off?"

"I'll need twenty minutes," said Raiden. "If Kasper or Aelin can smuggle us to her crypt, I can free all of you. And then you Fae can do what you do best—what I do best."

"Which is?"

"Raise hell," Raiden replied, and this time, he was grinning.

—

Channon dug the shovel into the pile of manure, wiping a hand across his forehead. It came away slick with sweat, despite the late autumn chill.

"It smells in here," Dallie said from her perch atop a bay of hale, wrinkling her nose. People had always said that Channon resembled his mother while Daleka resembled his father. It was true: Dallie had a shock of golden hair and the Ashryver eyes the siblings both shared, her skin tanned and freckled, spattered with cuts and bruises. Her wooden sword dangled from her hip.

Sometimes Channon envied Daleka's easy charm. Channon's own appeal was darker, his shape-shifting abilities ostracizing him even at a court as diverse as Rowan's. His sister, on the other hand, was the epitome of the golden-haired, blue-eyed Ashryver beauty; strong and fierce and yet somehow kind.

He didn't resent it for long. Channon had his own uses; his own talents. He wouldn't trade his shape-shifter gifts for anything.

"Maybe you should go back to the library," Channon replied, tossing a shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow behind him. Next time, he'd eavesdrop as something less obvious—a cricket, perhaps, or even a fruit fly. Although he always ran the risk of getting stepped on or swatted if he wasn't quick enough. "Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you don't pay attention to your tutors."

"They're _boring_ ," Dallie said, kicking her legs. The heels of her boots thumped against the hay bale, sending down a shower of straw.

"And this is better?" he said, gesturing to the empty, putrid stables.

She considered his statement. "Yes."

He huffed, ramming his toe down on the shovel to dig it in deeper into the manure. The stables were a sprawling mass of wooden beams and prize horses, presided over by nearly twenty stable boys and girls. Channon had been sentenced to cleaning out the first stable building, no small or pleasant task.

A horse whinnied from a stall over, and Channon studied it. Every time he saw an unusually graceful creature, he thought about what it would be like to shift into it—how it would feel. How the bones in his body would react, melding or melting.

He'd shifted into a wyvern once when he was ten. He'd been riding in the mountains with his father when they'd come upon a rogue hunting party some twenty large. His father had been down from his saddle, sword in hand, before Channon had much time to react.

"Stay here," his father had barked.

Instead, Channon had shifted.

He'd felt exhausted afterward, and his father had given him a verbal lashing for his folly. Shifting was dangerous, and the larger the form, the bigger the risk. Channon had been so tired that he'd needed a full day before he could shift back into himself again.

But despite his father's anger, he thought that he'd caught a hint of pride. Above all else, Channon valued that.

He slopped another shovelful back into the wheelbarrow. "What'd you do to get in trouble, anyway?" Dallie asked curiously.

"None of your business," Channon retorted. _Nine-year-old sisters: the bane of everyone's existence._

Dallie pouted. "No fair."

Channon leaned his shovel to the side, resting for a moment. It was then that he realized the world had gone silent.

The stables were quiet. They were never quiet, but now, for some reason, they were. It was as if a hush had fallen over the world, blanketing it in calm snow. The birds didn't chirp, the servants didn't chatter amongst themselves. The stables had paused.

"Dallie," Channon said.

"I mean," she continued, oblivious, " _I'd_ tell you if I was the one in trouble. How come you won't tell me?"

"Dallie," he repeated.

"It's not like it's that big of a deal. You get in trouble all the time. Mom says—"

" _Daleka, get behind me,"_ Channon snapped.

She went rigid, eyes widening. "Is something there? Channon, what's happening?"

That was when the monster appeared in the doorway to the stables.

It was misshapen, with a humped back and a single eye in the center of its forehead. It stretched nearly eight feet tall, with fangs long as Channon's index finger and otherwise toothless gums. Its skin was the color of pavement on a rainy day, its hair the shade of starlight on a night with no moon.

Daleka shrieked and got to her feet, unsheathing her sword.

"What do you want?" Channon demanded. His voice trembled only slightly.

The monster cocked its head. And said, " _You."_

—

"Something's happening," Lysandra said, facing the window in the king's suite.

She'd always thought that Rowan's rooms were lovely but melancholy, cold and detached. The old king's chambers had been destroyed in the sacking of Orynth, and Rowan had created his own, decorated them not to his taste but to Aelin's. He'd modeled the bed after the one they had shared so many years ago in Aelin's apartment in Rifthold; had stocked the polished lavatory with bar upon bar of expensive lavender soap and jasmine shampoo. He'd bought bottles of lemon verbena perfume and oils to cram in the cabinets, had purchased a clawfoot tub exactly to her ornate, luxurious taste.

He'd filled a closet with her old clothes, trunks of dresses now made musty and dusty with the passage of weeks and months and years, the fashions outdated while they had once been the height of fashion. He'd scattered candles all over the room, brand-new and smelling of lavender, jasmine, and lemon verbena: Aelin's scent. He'd never once lit them. Their wicks were fresh and clean; brand-new.

The bed was made neatly, as it always was. The mattress had never been used. Rowan refused to sleep in the bed without Aelin, and at night, he sprawled out in a tattered armchair tucked into the corner of the room.

Lysandra had heard rumors from the servants. They said that sometimes Rowan would lock himself in her would-be closet, staring at her dresses and rows of expensive shoes. Sometimes he uncapped a bottle of her perfume and inhaled it, as if simply by smelling her, he could make her come back.

It seemed morbid to the servants, to the maids and footmen who came in and changed the sheets on the bed despite the fact that no one ever used them. But to Lysandra, it had been heartbreaking.

She'd known Aelin. She'd seen Aelin and Rowan together.

She didn't just miss her best friend: she missed the person Rowan had been with her.

" _No,"_ Aedion said, drawling out the one syllable to drip and gleam with sarcasm. "Something's _happening_? _Really?_ "

"Obviously stated, maybe," said Lysandra, turning away from the frost-glossed window. They were in the sitting room of Rowan's chambers, a Persian-carpeted library with shelves of leather-bound books and plush, overstuffed armchairs. An untouched piano sat in the corner. Unlike the closet, the servants were permitted to clean it. Every year or so, a piano tuner would come in and adjust the keys, preserving its pristine condition, and it lay in wait, lovely but unused. "You can't deny it. For Raiden to go missing now, at the same time as…" She trailed off, fumbling for the words.

Rowan leaned against the wall, sharpening a dagger. "The gods are doing it again," he said. "Pushing us into place. Moving us like pawns."

"I still don't think Westfall's son has gone missing," said Aedion. "He's known for trouble, isn't he?"

"So were you, at one time," Lysandra reminded him with a faint smile that she didn't feel. Her stomach felt knotted and queasy these days, heavy with guilt and unpleasant thoughts.

Before her husband could reply, a knock thundered at the door. " _Aedion! Lysandra!"_ someone hollered hoarsely, words fraught with panic.

Lysandra exchanged a look with her husband, and he crossed the room in two neat strides, hurling open the door. Ren Allsbrook was standing outside, his face white as chalk. His skin was covered with sticky red blood.

" _Ren?"_ Aedion choked. Lysandra blanched.

Rowan stood, sheathing his dagger. "What's happened?"

"Monsters," Ren panted, his breaths coming raggedly. "Demons—from Morath."

Silence descended on the room.

"Valg?" Lysandra whispered, her heart thudding. Of course she'd known that Erawan was gone; he'd retreated before they'd gotten the chance to finish him, but…

"Where?" Rowan said, a hard, flinty look in his eyes.

"Stables," Ren managed.

Lysandra froze. "What?" she whispered.

"At the stables," Ren said. "Lysandra—" He swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple skittering up and down his throat like a stone tossed around by a river current. "They've done something to Channon."

The world went white.

It was Rowan that broke the silence—stepped in when Lysandra and Aedion were made mute, silent statues by their fear. "What do you mean," Rowan said slowly, dangerously, "they've done something to Channon?"

"He's in the infirmary," Ren started. "He's—"

But Lysandra had stopped listening. She was already running.

—

Syeira was not the best scullery maid they had ever seen.

She tried, of course. But by the time they'd served lunch, she'd broken three plates, dented a silver serving platter, and accidentally cut herself while scrubbing a knife, dripping blood all over the few pieces of crockery that she'd managed to get clean.

The head cook had snarled at her time and time again. Apparently, Syeira was slow. And lazy. And largely inefficient, incompetent, and surly. Syeira had tried yelling back at the cook, but it had gotten her nowhere. All it had done was enrage the woman, and earn Syeira three nights' worth of sleep on the fireplace hearth, on the cold stone.

Syeira was beginning to learn that pitching a hissy fit would get her nowhere in the kitchens. Maybe… maybe it would get her nowhere in life, too.

By the time late afternoon approached, the kitchen was a swirl of commotion, a whole pig roasting over the fire as they prepared dinner. Syeira scrubbed the plates furiously. Her neat bun had come undone, and black curls escaped from her knot, curling around her shoulders. She'd caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection in one of the windows, and she'd been appalled. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wild, hair a disaster of humid spirals. She'd broken a nail, and it hurt like hell.

She was working so furiously that it took her a moment to realize the kitchens had gone silent, save for the simmering of the pots and pans on the stove.

She turned, and saw a sea of open-mouthed servants gaping at the figure that stood in the doorway.

 _Rowan_. King Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, dressed in a silver-and-green tunic, armed to the teeth. But this was not the cool, calm, collected Rowan she'd met in the throne room—this was a panicked Rowan, horrified and pale, though calm. The Rowan, Syeira supposed, that had shown up on the beach the day Aelin was taken away.

"Syeira," he said. "I need you to come with me."

She blinked, about to snap, before she realized that if she wanted a chance to get out of a week's worth of kitchen duty, she'd best hold her tongue. "What do you need with me?"

"Just come. Now."

Syeira hedged. Half of her wanted to refuse out of spite, but the other half… The other half had no interest in doing dishes for the rest of the week.

"Should I change?" she said, reaching to undo her apron. ( _Apron._ She was wearing an _apron._ )

"No. Come quickly."

Syeira furrowed her brow but crossed through the kitchen, conscious of everyone's stares prodding into her back. Rowan had already turned on his heel, walking out of the kitchen and up a flight of stairs to the main corridor.

"What is it?" Syeira called, running to catch up to him. "What do you need from me?"

"You have Crochan blood in you," Rowan said abruptly, not bothering to stop. They were almost sprinting through the stone hallways, her boots clicking as she jogged. "How much?"

She was taken aback. "I don't… know."

"The Crochans are known for their healing magic," he said. "The Crochan queens had extraordinary restorative powers—more than I have. More than any Fae. Have you inherited that talent?"

"I don't know," she said, taking a sharp right turn. Gods, he was fast. "I've never tried. Why? Rowan, what's going on?"

"I," he said, "am taking you to the infirmary."

"The infirmary?" she said, balking.

"Yes. Channon Ashryver was attacked by a demon soldier from Morath."

Syeira tripped, almost stumbling forward. Rowan made no move to catch her, and she had to steady herself on the wall. " _What?"_

"It's gone now," Rowan said. "But it did something to Channon."

Her stomach turned over. "Something?"

"He's hallucinating," Rowan said. "Screaming. I've never seen anything like this before."

Syeira pressed a hand to her mouth. "I've never had any formal training in healing. I've never even tested myself to see if I have the healing gift. I don't know—"

Rowan whirled on his heel and faced her. She stumbled backwards at the look of pure fury on his face. "You will _try_ ," he said. "You will give it _everything you have._ I lost too many good people to that gods-damned war. I will not lose another. Not one that I care about this much. Not one that I love."

She took a step back again, startled at the display of concern from Rowan. She'd never considered that he might care about anything other than his missing queen or hypothetical children, but… then again, hadn't he named Channon Ashryver his heir in the event that he not have any? Hadn't he been good friends with General Aedion and Lady Lysandra since before he ascended the throne?

Syeira felt her stubbornness rear, her familiar Blackbeak determination rear its ugly head.

But this time, it was not so ugly. It had purpose.

She _could_ do it. She _would_ do it. She was stronger than Rowan gave her credit for, and she would not back down from a challenge. She liked Channon, always had. He'd danced with her at her fourteenth birthday party, cracking jokes about Ella Merchfield's transparent dress the whole time.

"Where is he?" she said.

"Here." Without Syeira realizing it, they'd arrived at the infirmary, a small wooden door marked with a bronze plaque. Rowan pushed it open, and led her into an undercroft of rooms connected by a central apothecary of sorts.

 _Homey._ That was the word that came to mind. Bunches of herbs dangled from the ceiling, ribboned handfuls of rosemary and thyme and tarragon and basil. The main office had stone walls, and it was peppered with wooden countertops, cluttered with ancient books on healing, mortar and pestles full of crushed ginger and other exotic spices, and draughts and potions brewing in glass tubes. Branching off from the central area were rooms, a long hallway of small white beds for the servants and other, more private, rooms for the nobility.

It was a world of antiseptics and old, kindred magic, and for the first time in her life, Syeira felt a loose end in her chest knot neatly into place.

She inhaled, deeply, closing her eyes. She felt rather than saw Rowan turn to her inquisitively, and when she opened her eyes again, he startled.

"Gods," he whispered.

A nurse bustled out of a room carrying a stack of bloodstained clothes. When she saw Syeira, she shrieked, the stack of cloth falling to the ground.

Syeira could see why. In a mirror across the room, she saw that her eyes had become solid blocks of gold.

But she couldn't help it. In this place, she could _feel_ the healing magic, as if it brushed against her legs like a friendly cat, tail swishing.

"Lead me to him," she said. Her voice had gone raspy—slithering like a snake.

She didn't feel the familiar bite of her quick temper. She didn't feel angry, or prissy. She didn't hear the whispers of the servants in the castle that said that while her father was kind and her brother intriguing, her mother commanding and her sister sweet and smart; her littlest brother a charming mischief-maker, Syeira was the one that had gotten nothing at all—nothing but a handful of snowflakes and too much courage and spunk.

She'd never been down to the infirmary in Rifthold before. Now she wished she had. She could feel something new hissing in her veins, cooling and calming. Healing magic.

Somewhat wary, Rowan led her down a corridor. The decor in the infirmary was simple; there were no doors, only cloth curtains to be parted. No hangings covered the wall, and in lieu of the plush rugs Syeira was accustomed to were straw mats.

Somewhat against her instincts, she liked it.

Rowan pushed aside a cotton curtain at the end of the hall. Dimly, Syeira was aware that the nurse was following in their footsteps, but the rest of the world was murky, as if swimming through troubled waters.

The room was basic, furnished with a single straw mat, chest, cot, and two chairs. The general and lady sat off to the side, ashen with bloodshot eyes, their daughter weeping. Channon was sprawled out over the bed. He was thrashing, writhing, screaming nonsense words.

" _Trees,"_ he gasped. His eyelids were shut, but Syeira could see his eyes moving behind them. " _Warm. Hot. Sticky. Too many trees. Close."_

His form was flickering, his outlines blurry, as if he'd lost the ability to stay in one form and was somehow shifting, lingering in a nowhere place, a nowhere form.

"What happened?" Syeira said. She sounded faraway, as if speaking underwater.

Aedion glanced up and swore, leaping from his chair. "What the _fuck_?" he said. His eyes had widened almost incredulously. "Rowan, what _happened_ to her? This is who you went to get?"

"She has Crochan heritage," the king answered, though his eyes darted nervously. "She might have healing powers. I took a chance, and it seems fairly obvious to me that perhaps her real gifts aren't raw ice magic or prophesy at all. Maybe she's not meant to destroy. Maybe she's meant to save."

Lysandra's eyes flicked from Aedion to Rowan and to her son, finally resting on Syeira. But it wasn't her that spoke. It was Dallie.

"Channon was cleaning out the stalls," she said. She sounded watery and thin, but she was strong. "I was watching. And all of a sudden the world went quiet. That was when the monster came."

"And what happened then?" Syeira said.

"It pointed a finger at me," she said, shivering. "And I froze. I couldn't move. It froze Channon, too. It went over to Channon and—touched him. Touched his cheek. Uncle Ren came then, and the world got all loud again, and the monster went away."

"Vanished in thin air," Lysandra supplied heavily.

"And Channon was like this," Dallie finished.

Aedion's shoulders stooped."Please, Syeira. Help him. Help my son."

Syeira had stopped listening. She walked over to the side of the cot where Channon laid, her eyes narrowed.

She could hear his irregular heartbeat. She registered his shallow breaths.

She pressed her index and middle fingers right above where his heart should be, and on pure instinct, _pulled._

Syeira Crochan-Havilliard had spent all her life _pushing._ She pushed for her status and respect; she pushed to be the leader that her parents had been before her, she pushed for magic and for strength, she pushed to be the imposing raw, lethal witch that she knew she could be.

But maybe… Maybe, unlike her mother, she was not a warrior. Maybe, unlike her father, she was not an infinity pool of raw magic.

Maybe she would never be the kind of leader that her parents were, because she would be her own kind of leader—her own kind of person.

For the first time in her life, she _pulled_ instead of _pushed._ She drew in instead of out.

The world faded away around her, the atmosphere dimming. She was aware, detachedly, that Rowan was shouting at her to be careful, that she had no idea what she was doing, that Aedion was screaming, that Lysandra was shrieking, that Dallie was rocking back and forth in a corner, hands clamped over her ears, eyes squeezed shut.

But all Syeira was truly conscious of was her and Channon: her and his heart. Something had poisoned his bloodstream, a viscous, black, oozing substance. She drew it out, eased it from his heart into her own blood.

Aedion Ashryver let out a long, explosive curse, and Syeira knew why.

The blackness was visible in her skin as it skittered upward, contaminating her own blood and flashing onyx against her tanned complexion as she sucked it from Channon's bloodstream into hers. For the briefest of seconds, she felt pain, felt hysteria, felt a warm jungle beneath her feet and mosquitoes buzzing around her ears—

And then it was gone.

Channon's body relaxed. His eyes flew open.

Somehow, Syeira's own blood had negated the venom—as if she'd taken on the ailment of the patient and let her own heritage cleanse it.

Channon croaked, "Mom? Dad?"

Syeira took a step back as Lysandra let out a half-sob and heaved her son into her arms, stroking his hair and whispering words into his ear. Aedion enveloped them both, gripping them as if he'd thought he'd never get the chance again. Dallie joined in, crawling in-between them.

Syeira looked away to find Rowan watching her, the Fae king's eyes narrowed.

"So," she said laconically. She felt better, less temperamental, but the eerie calm that had briefly descended upon her was gone, and she was almost positive that her eyes had gone back to their normal golden pupils. "Back to kitchen duty for me, then?"

"No," Rowan said unexpectedly.

She rose a brow. "I'm off the hook?"

"No," he said. "Instead of playing house in the kitchen, you'll be assisting the nurses here. They'll be teaching you an overview of basic healing. You'll do grunt work—clean out bowls, mix draughts. Perhaps even heal a few inhabitants of the infirmary. I want to test this new ability of yours out."

She hesitated, but nodded. She liked it here. Being in a room of healing and fresh life felt, for the first time in her life, like home.

"And," Rowan said, "every morning, I'll be taking you out to the training fields with me."

"Where the guards condition?" Syeira said, bewildered.

"No," Rowan said, grinning. It was the first time she had seen him smile, and his incisors gleamed, his eyes sparking with a humor that was ancient and twisted. "To the magic fields—the ones that the gifted Fae use. I'm going to make good on my promise, Syeira. I'm going to train you."

—

Leta and Vaughan set off again, shifting into birds once more. She propelled the winds, and they made a good pace. She could see where the mountains ended now; could see from above an expanse of flat greenery and rolling hills. They were nearing the northern coast of Wendlyn, approaching the place where the crashing waves met the sand.

Leta had never seen the ocean before. What would that be like—to be surrounded by water on all sides, trapped in a sea of surf?

That night, camped at the fringe of the forest, their fire flickering weakly, Leta said, "Vaughan?"

He was sprawled across a log, tightening the string on his bow. "Yes, love?"

His temporary awkwardness had dissipated, it seemed, and he was back to being his confident, charming, assholish self.

"Have you ever seen the ocean?"

He smiled ruefully. "Many times. I grew up by the ocean."

Leta's interest piqued, and she straightened. "Really? Where?"

"I grew up in a country far, far to the east of here," he said. "East of Doranelle. I don't know if it still exists."

"How old are you?" she said curiously.

"Around a century," he answered. "More or less."

She studied him. His shirt had ridden up a bit on his torso, exposing an expanse of toned, brown-sugar skin near the waistband of his trousers. She bit her lip and glanced away. "What was it like?" she said.

"The ocean, or growing up near it?"

"Both, I guess."

Vaughan paused. "The ocean is endless," he said at last. "I grew up in a fishing port. It wasn't small, but it wasn't large. Not like Varese, or the City of Rivers in Doranelle, or Antica or even the larger cities in Erilea—Rifthold, Orynth; Banjali. I was a slum rat. I lived in the seedier streets near the polluted end of the bay, and for the first thirteen years of my life, all I knew was the smell of decomposing crab."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's… unpleasant."

"It was," he agreed. "My sister was the one who raised me. Minya. She worked as a courtesan in a brothel."

Leta sucked in a breath, but Vaughan didn't seem to hear her, as if lost in his own story.

"When I was very young," he continued, "I dreamed of buying a boat one day. Nothing special; just a run-of-the-mill trawler. I wanted to paint it blue and red and name it after my sister. I imagined that I'd take it out onto the bay, pull in huge nets of fish and hurl up lobster and crab traps, collecting shelled creatures like candy. Like the wealthy fishermen I saw at the docks in the nice end of town, the ones with shiny boots and embroidered coats."

Leta stared at the stars and listened.

"The trouble with the sea," Vaughan said, "is that there's no end in sight. And with no end in sight, it's easy to delude yourself that there isn't one—that limits don't exist. That the waves could just swallow you whole and protect you, keep you safe."

"What happened?" she said quietly.

"A secret for a secret, Leta," he said. "That's our deal. And I've just told you one."

She snorted. "You've never told anyone about growing up in a seaside town? Didn't you say that you and Lorcan fought together for eighty years?"

"He doesn't know any of what I just told you," said Vaughan. "None of the cadre did. We knew only the bare minimum about each other."

"How sad," Leta said, frowning.

"Is it?" Vaughan cocked his head, his fingers halting their graceful dance along the curve of his bow. "I wonder."

"How could it not be sad?"

"Isn't there something poetic to be said for it?" he mused. "There were six of us, and we didn't know a thing about each other, or close to it. And yet we were willing to give up our lives for each other."

"That doesn't sound poetic to me," Leta said. "That sounds like six Fae with very little to live for. If anything at all."

Vaughan chuckled. "Oh?"

"There's this trope about redemption in an honorable death, or at least that's the way it is in books," she said. "But I don't see anything redeeming about it. I don't care how someone dies; I care what they do while they're alive. If the only thing anyone remembers about you is your death, what does that say about your life?"

Vaughan propped himself up an elbow, and for a hairsbreadth, their eyes met—her gold-and-blue irises clashing against his roasted-chestnut ones. His hair had escaped its ponytail, and it curled around his shoulders, thick and dark.

He didn't respond to her question. Instead, he said, "You owe me a secret, love."

Something was squirming, fluttering in her stomach.

She panicked.

"I used to eat flowers," she blurted out.

He rose a brow. "Pardon?"

"I used to eat flowers," she said, cheeks flaming. "When I was little. The petals were always so colorful, and at the time, I thought that meant that they'd taste good."

He laughed, a surprised, rusty sound. "And did they?"

"Gods, no. They tasted bitter and stringy."

Vaughan chuckled. "It occurs to me that that's not a very good secret."

"You didn't say it had to be a good one," she pointed out. "Before, you just said it had to be something I'd never told anyone."

"Touche."

They lapsed into silence. Leta finally averted her eyes from his, focusing instead on a pillbug scuttling across the forest floor.

"Vaughan," she said, softly, "why did you kill your sister?"

He inhaled, and she thought for a moment that he'd get angry, that he'd lash out, the way Mohana had, but he didn't. He went rigid, as if struck, but he didn't make a move toward her.

"It was an accident," he said finally, words rough. "A horrible, awful accident. And a story for another time."

Leta studied him. "Alright."

He let out a choked noise. "'Alright'?" he repeated.

"What else is there to say?" she said. "You aren't going to tell me right now, are you?"

"No. I'm not."

"Then it seems," she said, "that we are at an impasse, my friend. I have my own share of dark secrets. I won't force you to tell yours."

"Mine do paint me in a somewhat unhinged light."

"Vaughan," she said. "I'm not sure if you've noticed, but you are _entirely_ unhinged. On the other hand, you've also saved my ass twice now, and the worst you've done is called me 'love' despite my persistent requests not to do so."

He laughed, but she went on.

"I like you," she said. "Maybe against my better judgment. But I do."

He met her gaze again. The firelight flickered over his features, illuminating the faint dusting of stubble over his chin, his nutmeg-colored skin, his dark, somehow warm, eyes. "I like you, too. Probably quite foolish of me. But I do."

Leta smiled.

—

In the morning, when Leta woke to a frosted sky dusted with blossomy clouds, and a smoldering, extinguished fire, Vaughan handed his jacket back to her. "It's going to be cold today," he said, shading his eyes as he looked out over the horizon.

"I already got a jacket," she said bewilderedly, fingering the sleeves of the coat.

He shrugged. "You could use another one. Couldn't you?"

A protest was already on her lips when she caught his scent wafting up from it—caught the aroma of smoke and cloves.

She knew she was selfish, and stupid. But she couldn't help but mumble a thanks and clutch it to her chest.

He grinned, his cheeks dimpling. "Anything for you, love."

—

Vaughan didn't want his coat anyway. He'd stopped feeling the chill.

—

Lorcan Salvaterre crouched in the shadows, biding his time.

Sollemere was exactly as he remembered it, if a bit ravaged by time. The streets he had once prowled and destroyed remained crumbled and dusty; the buildings still crumpled like a collapsed souffle. The sun still shone hot and withering. Nothing grew in the city of blood and ashes, not anymore.

He was downwind of the palace, where none of Maeve's court would smell him. He hadn't been expecting so many to follow their queen to an exiled land of whispered death, but then Maeve had always been persuasive. It was how she had gotten Lorcan to love her, if what he had felt could be called love.

Lorcan knew love now, too late. It was time to redeem himself.

He did not want a victory against Maeve. All he had to do was get in and get out with the two people that mattered: Aelin, and her other child.

Lorcan had felt the ripple of power answer Leta's call unconsciously. It had been faint, as if cloaked by iron. But he'd felt it.

Lorcan stepped out from the shadows of the broken alleyway and smiled, his hatchet gleaming in his hand.

It was time.

—

Kasper didn't know why he came to see Fenrys and Westfall. It was stupid of him, almost idiotic, especially so soon after Maeve had caught him.

Kasper's mother had bandaged him up with a trembling lower lip and wet cheeks. His mother had long-since stopped sobbing when she cried; her tears were silent and understated, the sort that could be concealed and hidden away.

The dungeons were a maze of iron. He despised it down here, after he'd spent a whole year trapped in one of the cells when he was twelve. Maeve liked to dole out odd punishments like that when she got bored or disinterested with her life.

It was only in the past year that she'd begun to eye him like she eyed Connall, like she eyed Fenrys. It was a matter of time now before she dragged him to her bed.

That was the one thing Kasper didn't think he could stomach. Not that. Anything but that.

But for his mother… for Fenrys…

Kasper knew he would do it. For them, he would.

There was no guard keeping watch over the cells, as usual. They were lit only by the torch Kasper held in his hand, the flame flickering weakly over the walls. His mother had told him that he might have a touch of her fire gifts, but he'd never gotten the chance to test them. Kasper didn't know if he had any magic at all.

Though, given his heritage, it was more than likely. He'd heard rumors about his birth—that when he was born, he'd sent a flare of light through the room so bright that it had outshone the sun.

They hadn't expected Leta to follow, but when she had, she'd sucked Kasper's glow out, replaced it with silvery darkness. Kasper had always been fascinated by this story. He'd wanted to meet her, the sister he'd never known, the shadow to his alleged light.

They'd thrown Fenrys and Westfall into a cell together, and Westfall was dozing on Fenrys's shoulder, his face buried in the Fae's neck. Fenrys was eying Westfall in a way that made Kasper want to back out and give them some privacy.

But then Fenrys said, "Kasper? Is that you?"

"Yes," he said reluctantly, coming forward. He knew he still looked like shit; there was little he could do with his iron blocking his magic.

Westfall stirred, blinking blearily.

"Kasper," Fenrys said, his eyes glowing with something strange, unfamiliar—something Kasper had never seen before.

Something that looked deceptively like hope.

"Kasper," said Fenrys, "we can break the chains."

And it was at that precise moment that all hell broke loose.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry about the cliffhanger! Things might get a bit sketchy with me updating, because I'm thinking about transferring high schools probably sometime next week or the week after, and all that that entails. I'll try my best, though!**

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	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: I'm back (after way too long! Aaah)! Here we go with chapter 12! I'm not sure that I'm really satisfied with this one, and I might go back and rewrite it later, but right now... I'm too excited to write the next chapter, actually. (I'm awful, I know.) Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this one! (There's a scene in the middle of this chapter that I... ah... didn't _intentionally_ mean to write... but... You'll see what I mean...)**

 **RECAP: Alright, so. Raiden has been locked up with Maeve for some time now. He has a bit of a weird habit of noticing how attractive Fenrys is... whatever that means. He's also just learned that the reason Fenrys, Kasper (Aelin's son), and Aelin didn't break the chains before was because they were Wyrdmarked. Raiden revealed that he's fluent in Wyrdmarks, and he could free them. Hip hip hooray!**

 **Meanwhile, Leta and Vaughan are on their way to the northern coast, Terrasen-bound. And Lorcan just arrived at Sollemere to raise some hell.**

 **Explosive combos. Thanks to everyone who reviewed (YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING)!**

* * *

CHAPTER 12

Aelin Galathynius sat on the pile of mildewed hay in the corner of her undercroft cage and cried.

She didn't cry often now, not that she ever had. When she did, it was soundless: she'd long-since lost the ability to sob, to scream, as if someone-anyone-might hear her cries. She'd long-since realized, as the years dragged by in a haze of blood and lashes, that no one ever would.

She sometimes thought that she'd lost the ability to weep, as if her meager months had wrung her tears from her like water from a dirtied washrag. But then something would happen, the unthinkable would become reality, and Aelin would discover, yet again, that things could always get worse-and that she always, always had something left to lose.

She should've protected Kas. Aelin had failed so miserably at shielding her children that she sometimes thought it was a blessing that no one would ever find her. It was a blessing that she would not have to look into Rowan's face and tell him how Maeve had taken her daughter from her arms while Aelin was still bleeding and gasping on the floor, throat raw with her muffled cries of pain. It was a blessing that she would never have to tell Rowan that she had not been able to keep Kas safe from Maeve-that no matter how many times she tried to escape, they were always brought back, and it was not Aelin that was punished, but Kas; and she was made to stand by and watch.

After she'd given birth to Kas and Leta, she'd thought that Maeve would kill her. The queen had, after all, no more use for Aelin. Aelin would have welcomed death at that time, after the blood and the screams.

Leta had been so small-tiny, even, with a nose no bigger than Aelin's pinky finger. She'd drawn in little, snuffling breaths through her rosebud lips and button nose.

Kas didn't look like Rowan, not really. He had his father's eyes and mouth, but the rest of him was Aelin, through-and-through. His tawny Ashryver coloring made him resemble Aedion more than Rowan.

When he was younger, Aelin used to stroke his hair as he slept beside her. She used to call him her golden-haired boy, until the day that Maeve slammed her son to the floor, whip in Cairn's hand, looked Aelin in the eye and said, _Pity. He's such a lovely golden-haired boy._

Bile brushed her throat as she thought about it.

It was better, Aelin thought sometimes, that Kas didn't look like Rowan. It was better that Aelin didn't have to live with the constant reminder of all that she had lost, just how miserably she'd failed. No matter how hard she'd tried, every second of every day, to keep Kas safe, she'd never been able to cordon him off from the world of suffering and exquisite pain. She'd taken seventy-five lashes once to keep Kas safe from five.

She'd have taken five hundred.

She still remembered the day that Kas's eyes changed. He'd been three, playing out by the well while Aelin washed the laundry, scrubbed cloth with the soap that made her hands so dry and cracked, unrecognizable from the slender lady's hands that they had once been twenty-something years ago, when she was eight and naive and blessed.

They'd lived in Doranelle the day Kas's eyes had changed-Rowan and the rest had been too preoccupied with Erawan in the west to save her. Aelin had understood. She'd known what she was doing that day on the beach.

Kas had been ripping out handfuls of the jade-green grass that grew in thick clusters around the well, shaking the ripped yellow roots in his chubby fists.

Perfect, lovely pink hands; slender-fingered and elegant. If things had been different, Kas might've been a beautiful pianist.

The sun had hit him, dappling his Ashryver bone structure in citrusy light that smelled like the lemon verbena perfume that she'd once rubbed behind her ears and wrists, and his eyes had glowed not the faded, crushed cornflower of baby irises, but pine-green, like the forests that blanketed the Staghorn Mountains in the country that had once been her home.

Rowan's eyes.

Aelin had screamed when they took Leta away. Her voice had been hoarse with it. She hadn't been expecting twins; she'd thought that she'd be finished after Kas came out, already gleaming with golden light. They wasted no time in slapping iron cuffs on his brand-new arms, studding his virgin ears with spokes of the blackish metal.

She'd screamed then, too. But then she'd been lost in Leta...

She hadn't come out like Kas, in a triumph of sunshine; a deluge of radiance. She'd come out like a wisp of smoke, somehow colder, more delicate; beautiful in the remote way of frost spiderwebbing across a leaded windowpane, even as a baby; skin milky and pale, a tuft of silver hair on her soft head.

Aelin hadn't had the time to see Leta grow up, but she suspected that her daughter would have been like her husband in the ways that Kasper was like her. She suspected that her daughter would've had Rowan's hair, a river of silvery luminescence, and perhaps his manner-quiet but strong; determined.

Aelin had laid on the floor of the jail cell-because that was, of course, where they forced her to have her children-and screamed when Maeve went bone-white at the sight of Leta. She'd screamed when Maeve had said that there could be only one survivor, that two was too much. She'd _screamed_ when Maeve had taken Leta away. Aelin had only gotten a few seconds to name her daughter.

Aelin had risen from the floor, trembling and weak, wrapped in iron from head-to-toe, and dared to fight back.

Maeve had shoved her against the wall, broken several of her ribs, and dragged her down to the prison beneath the graveyard of the fallen.

Both of her children had been taken away from her in those early days. Maeve had brought Kas to raise as her own child, and she'd taken Leta away from the world: the lovely girl with the delicate frost who might have been so much like Rowan.

Aelin stopped trying. She didn't rise from her bed for weeks, and no one made her. She wasted away, slowly withering like brown leaves curling and wilting.

Two weeks after her children had been born, after one of them was dead and the other no longer hers, Maeve had come into her room holding her son.

Sometimes when Aelin couldn't sleep she'd sit in the corner of her room and murmur the names that she had been permitted to give them-a strange, small kindness.

 _Leta Lyria Evalin Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius._

 _Kasper Samuel Rhoen Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius._

Long, powerful names. Because there was power in a name-Aelin should know. She'd been the bearer of so very many.

She'd crouched on her bed of straw, and Maeve had set Kas down beside her. The baby blinked up at her owlishly. He was too thin, she noticed detachedly; his skin was the color of curdled cream, and his cheekbones protruded from his heart-shaped face like wings from the back of a skinned baby bird.

"He won't take milk from anyone," said Maeve, her lip curling in disgust.

Aelin hadn't looked at the queen-hadn't been able to. Not after what she'd done.

"So?" she said tonelessly.

"Your son is dying," Maeve said. "Fix it if you want him to survive, or I'll breed you again with someone else."

For a moment Aelin had seen a different future flash in front of her eyes-one in which her son did die, like her daughter; one in which she killed herself soon after; one in which Rowan finally found her after a century of searching but there was nothing left but a pile of bones and ash.

But then she saw Kasper's mouth.

It was Rowan's mouth: disarmingly pretty in a face of muscle and tattoo, too full for a boy, a tad too pink.

 _This is your mate's child,_ Aelin thought. _This is Rowan's son._

And so she brought Kasper into her arms and vowed to keep him safe as best as she was able.

Maeve had discovered soon enough that they could be used as leverage against each other, to keep one another in check. And sometimes Maeve permitted Aelin to take five, six times the amount of lashings Kas would receive, substituting her in his place.

Aelin tried fighting back. But powerless, with forty Fae breathing down her neck, as she was kept weak and thin, crippled by her love for her son…

She would gamble with her own life, but she would not toy with the life of her son. She wasn't much a of a threat. Not anymore.

She'd known who Chaol's son was the minute Kasper had brought him to her door. Kas had been wild-eyed, carrying a limp, lanky form that looked so much like Chaol it had knocked the wind out of her. The boy had Nesryn's dark skin, but Chaol's russet hair and warm eyes; the same way of holding and commanding himself and speaking.

She'd wanted so badly to protect him, but she'd failed at that, too.

She sat now on the bed of straw, her knees pulled up to her chest, as tears slipped down her cheeks and fell onto the hay. It was better this way-better that no one had ever found her. Better that Rowan would never know...

She'd felt such hope when Fenrys's secret had come out. Felt hope, and thanks, such overwhelming gratitude that her knees had gone out. Aelin wanted to believe that her daughter was alive, wanted desperately to think that the girl she had named after Lyria had grown up and become like her husband.

When Maeve had come back empty-handed...

Aelin had sensed that pulse of magic. Her daughter was alive. She'd felt it.

But maybe... Maybe Aelin would never even know Leta.

It was nighttime now in Sollemere, not that Aelin could see the stars from her dirt cellar beneath the cemetery. The tallow candles sputtered, emitting the scent of burning fat, and she curled in further on herself, her hair tumbling over her forehead in lank, greasy strands. She'd never stop fighting, not as long as Kas still lived, but she was so tired, so hopeless, after all those years of losing.

And then the knock came.

A fist thudded on her door, three times. She furrowed her brow, swiping the backs of her hands across her cheeks hastily to wipe away the tears.

"Aelin!" someone thundered-Fenrys, Aelin thought dizzily. "Open up!"

Aelin shoved herself up from the floor, crossed the room in two neat strides, and flung the door open. Fenrys stood there-and Raiden, and Kas. As was habit whenever she saw her son, Aelin's eyes flicked down his form, assuring herself that he was in one piece, that he was safe, checking for limbs and a lack of scars.

He'd grown taller than her in the past few years, perhaps as tall and broad-shouldered as his father. It was a rare thought that almost made her want to smile.

"You can't be out of your cell," Aelin began. "It's too dangerous. You could-"

"Something's happening up at the castle," Fenrys interrupted. "Something big."

She narrowed her eyes. "Like what?"

"An attack of some kind, I don't know," said Kas. His voice, she thought; that was the other thing she'd gotten from Rowan. His years growing up in Doranelle and Sollemere had laced his words with the same subtle, rolling accent, but even without it, his tone had the same depth, the same slight roughness to it. "All the guards have been called away. I was able to get us through to you without anyone noticing."

"But why?" said Aelin. "Even if there is an attack, now's hardly the time to-" She froze. "Is it... Rowan?"

"Not Rowan," Raiden said, and she swallowed, quelling the burst of disappointment. _Stupid._ "It's not an army. But it's a distraction."

"Don't be idiots," she hissed. "You're going to get caught again, and then we'll all be screwed."

"Aelin," Fenrys said, and it struck her for the first time how he looked. She hadn't seen him look like this in nearly sixteen years, not since they'd been on a ship together, fighting side-by-side with Manon and Dorian and Rowan; Gavriel and Aedion; Lysandra and even, briefly, Lorcan and Elide. He shone with _life,_ with _hope._

"What?" she said. Her heart thudded. "What is it?"

Both Kas and Fenrys looked, of all people, to Raiden Westfall.

Raiden swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, Chaol's amber eyes gleaming. "I can break the chains."

Connall hated his brother.

His brother had been the charming one, the golden one; the perfect one. He'd seen to emit a glow from within his chest, and smiled and laughed as if it were easy as breathing. Fenrys was everyone's favorite, had been since he and Connall were children. Everyone preferred Fenrys's shine to Connall's damper, and who could blame them? Fenrys was the more likeable of the two. He didn't fold inward on himself like Connall did; he threw his arms _outward._

Connall hadn't regretted pledging his services to Maeve, but Fenrys had swept in anyway, ever the tragic hero. Fenrys had been the one that saved him, rescued him from an "unfortunate fate," as everyone had put it.

Fenrys had ended up stealing his limelight yet again, and that-saving him from what might have been Connall's glory, or at least tragic story-was the one thing Connall had not been able to forgive his brother.

Connall had been triumphant at Fenrys's fall from grace when it had been revealed that his brother had saved the fire-breathing bitch-queen's daughter. He'd been triumphant every step of the way as Fenrys had suffered, bled, and choked on his own poison.

Connall hated himself for it.

He hated himself for so many things-hated himself for being in love with Maeve, as cruel and heartless and undeserving as she was; hated himself for being so unlikeable and decidedly uncharming; hated himself for not standing up as Fenrys had done when Maeve had killed that baby (or so Connall had thought at the time), and hated himself for not lifting a finger to protect Kasper Galathynius, as Fenrys had done; as Aelin had done. As they did.

They'd both done everything to protect that child-made a horrible situation bearable, if barely.

Connall hated himself for being jealous of the way that Maeve eyed Kasper, hated himself for envying the court's love of the young Fae. Kasper had inherited Aelin's dry wit, and both of his parent's good looks. Even with his powers muted and suffocated, Kasper radiated smiles and affability, as if it was just that easy.

Connall hated so many things.

He sat now in the parlor room in his chambers, playing cards with Jacan and a few of the other warriors. Maeve's cadre had become different in the years since Rowan, Lorcan, and Gavriel had left it-it had become broader, less exacting, numbering around thirty or so instead of six. It was a bone of contention for Connall, not that he'd ever mentioned it. He wouldn't dare.

"I win," Jacan said with a smile, tossing his cards down on the table. "Pay up, you sorry bastards."

Connall grimaced. By the time the night was over, his pockets would be empty, and then he'd be poor _and_ out of favor with his queen. He'd been so distracted lately.

"Eff you," one of the warriors said, though without any real bite.

That did it. "I'm out," Connall said, holding up his hands.

"Oh, come on-"

"Sorry," Connall said, forcing a smirk. "No interest in completely emptying my coffers."

There was a knock on the door, and the fire crackling in the hearth seemed to ebb a bit, shrinking back, though that might've been Connall's overactive, brooding imagination.

"Who the hell is that?" Jacan said without much interest, snatching up the deck of gilded cards and shuffling them with surprising grace between his stubby, scarred fingers.

"I'll get it," Connall said, heading over and pulling open the heavy oaken door. It was still marred with scratches from the battle that had taken place decades earlier, like most of Sollemere.

A page was standing outside, gray-faced. "There's been an attack."

Connall went still with a lethal, predatory grace. Behind him, the warriors stiffened with attention. "What was that?" he said silkily.

"A breach," the page rushed on, shrinking back. The poor thing was a human; a mortal lifted from the streets of Varese years back. Connall felt a distant mixed sympathy and contempt for the creature. "In the western wall. Five guards were found dead."

Connall and Jacan exchanged glances across the room. "Fae guards?" Connall asked carefully. "Or human ones? Answer carefully, mortal."

"F-Fae," the page stammered, blanching.

Connall cocked his head. "Five Fae guards all found dead? Without an alarm being raised?"

"They were found minutes ago," the page said, nodding frantically. "Her Majesty sent me to get you-"

"Rowan," Jacan breathed from across the room. "Has to be."

"Where the fuck is Cairn?" Connall snarled at the page, who shrank back with his fingers splayed in protest.

"At Her Majesty's side," the page said. "But-"

"Then that's where I'm going," said Connall, and turned back to the assembled group. The cards lay splayed out on the table, forgotten. "Where we're all going. Now."

"But sir," the page said. "That's not all."

"Oh?"

"Whoever did it," said the page, a sheen of sickly sweat coating his pathetic features. "He's inside the castle."

Raiden had been ten when his father taught him about the Wyrdmarks.

Chaol had handed Raiden a book-simple, black and silver-embossed. _The Walking Dead._ "Read it," he said. "Study it. Learn it."

"But Dad," Raiden had said, paging through it, eyes skimming the printed pages. "This is... magic."

Despite the changes made in the past decade at that time, magic was still a feared word in their kingdom. Despite the fact that a king with raw magic and a half-Ironteeth, half-Crochan queen lounged on the throne; despite the fact that the heir to Adarlan had iron fangs and claws and superhuman strength and speed; despite the fact that the whole royal family was a hodge-podge of magic and varying degrees of cruelty and lethality, the practice was something kept hushed, still shadowed by the terror of the years that had come before.

"I know," Chaol had answered.

"But... our family doesn't have any," Raiden had said, confused. "Magic, I mean."

"This doesn't require magic, Rai," Chaol had said patiently. "It just requires patience. Something you lack."

Maybe it had been Chaol's doubt that had driven Raiden to learn the bitch of a language, or maybe it had been Raiden's intense desire to become anything other than ordinary; to become special enough to deserve someone like Syeira. He'd wanted so badly to hold his own in the shadow of his parents' legacy.

Not that he'd managed it. Looking back on it now, perhaps it had been the gods' way of pushing Raiden into his path, preparing him for the day that he would break these chains.

Maeve was so powerful, but Kasper... Kasper was even more so. Fenrys and Aelin were legendary.

If Raiden could do this... If he succeeded...

He crouched over Kasper's chains in Aelin's crypt now, furrowing his brow. A riddle and a set of instructions were inscribed on the metal.

"So?" Aelin said anxiously.

"Can you do it?" Fenrys said. "We don't have much time, Raiden."

Raiden glanced up at the Fae. Fenrys really was handsome, Raiden thought absentmindedly; the shadows threw his classical features into sharp profile. His golden curls tumbled down his neck. They looked as if they'd be soft.

Why was Raiden thinking about Fenrys's hair?

He cleared his throat abruptly. "I think so," he said. "It says here that I have to answer this riddle to break them."

"Well?" Kasper said. "What's the riddle?"

"'I break but do not shatter,'" Raiden read, somewhat slowly. It had been years since he'd done this.

"These are old runes," Aelin said. "I tried to read them, but I couldn't. I wasn't fluent enough."

"Shh," Fenrys hissed. Aelin glowered at him, but Raiden continued, undeterred.

"'I have no color,'" Raiden said, "'but am often blue.'"

"What the fuck?" Kasper said, and earned a light smack on the back of his head from his mother. Kasper winced and shot Aelin a look, but she only glared back at him.

"Watch your mouth, young man," she said imperiously.

"Your mouth is worse!" Kasper protested.

"I," Aelin said, straightening her back with dignity, "am a lady."

"Oh, for the love of-"

"Do you want to hear the riddle or not?" Raiden snapped.

"We do," Fenrys said, and put a hand on Raiden's shoulder. For some reason, the contact of Fenry's long fingers on his skin made Raiden's stomach flip, though that was ridiculous. "Please, Rai. Go ahead."

 _Soft hair..._

"'I break but do not shatter. I have no color, but am often blue. I am quick to swallow and slow to spit.'"

The four of them sat in silence for a beat or two.

"What," said Fenrys finally, "is that?"

Kasper sucked in a sharp breath. "Water."

"Oh," Aelin said. The queen of Terrasen sounded very, very small.

"Gods," Fenrys said, his jaw set. "As soon as you get your gifts back, Kas, promise me that you'll kick Maeve's ass."

"What?" Raiden said. "How can you be sure?"

"My daughter," Aelin began, then faltered. "My daughter had water powers. She showed signs when she was born."

For a moment, Raiden was struck speechless.

"What do you need next?" Fenrys said, stepping in when neither Kasper nor Aelin could. "If anything?"

"I need Kasper's blood," said Raiden.

"Pardon?" Kasper said.

"To break the enchantment," Raiden clarified. "I'll need to write the runes for 'water' on your chains in your blood. That should do it."

Kasper nodded, and before anyone could react, lifted a sharp stone from the floor and dug it into his honey-tanned skin.

His blood slipped down, pooling on the floor. Aelin went white and turned away. Raiden felt a stab of sympathy: she'd probably seen her son's blood spilled far too many times.

Raiden took a deep breath.

Out of everything he wished he could've done differently since the events that had led him to Sollemere, the thing Raiden regretted about his life before his chains was his relationship with his father. Chaol had been good to Raiden-exacting, sometimes harsh, but good.

Kasper might never get to know his father. Raiden owed it to all the children that never would to curb his stupidity and impulsivity, to make amends as best as he was able. He missed his dad. He missed his mom.

Even if he did die here, he hoped they heard about what he did. Raiden hoped that he could, even if only once, make them proud.

He dipped his finger in the blood and began to draw.

Lorcan didn't exactly have a plan, but that was fine. He'd always been best when he was wild. He and Whitethorn had had that in common before Aelin-before Elide.

He pictured her face sometimes when he was lonely, or feeling particularly masochistic. She'd been so lovely-skin like glistening pearls, hair like liquid dark, eyes so large and fathomless that they'd cracked something open in his impenetrable chest.

 _This is for you,_ he thought. _I wanted to go to Perranth with you. Maybe... Maybe I still can. Maybe it's not too late._

 _You've made me think there could be a 'maybe.'_

He'd worked fast dispatching the sentries on the western wall. For someone else they might've been a challenge, but for Lorcan, his hatchet had taken care of them in seconds. He'd relished the feeling of blood on his hands.

It had been too long since he'd exacted vengeance-too long since Lorcan Salvaterre had been in a proper fight.

Sollemere was a dusty, lonely city, probably chosen exactly because of its remote gloominess. Lorcan forced the memories of bloodshed aside.

The sandstone castle was hushed, but he was no fool. It was only a matter of time before they caught his scent; before they found the Fae dead.

Lorcan slipped through the hallways. He'd seen a few bursts of life; light emanating from beneath doorways, spilling out into the corridors of mosaic, but mostly it had been lifeless as a grave.

 _Aelin, Aelin, Aelin._ She had to be alive. She and that other child of hers. Lorcan had known from the minute he'd felt that answering ripple of power that there was another. If only he could get free, he could probably burn the whole place to the ground.

The thought gave him some satisfaction.

Voices trickled down the hallway, and Lorcan froze, plastering himself against the wall. It was Cairn-and Connall.

"What do you mean, Fenrys and Westfall aren't in their cages?" Cairn growled.

Lorcan stiffened. _Fenrys? Westfall?_

 _Cages?_

"They're gone," said Connall. "I've sent people to head for Aelin's cell beneath the cemetery. Ten-to-one they're there."

"You were in charge of security, you-"

"No, I wasn't," Connall interrupted. "You were, Cairn. I'm not about to let you pin this on me. If they're gone, it's your own gods-damned fault for being such a fool."

 _Cell beneath the cemetery. Where the bloody hell is the cemetery?_

" _I'm_ the fool," Cairn said. "Ironic. Whatever gets you to sleep at night, you piece of festering shit."

"Enough. We need to track down that disturbance. Whatever-"

Connall's words drifted off abruptly, and Cairn said, mockingly, "What? Cat got your tongue, shithead?"

"Stop for a minute," Connall said.

"Need me to lay off?"

"Stop and smell, you idiot," snarled Connall, and that was when Lorcan knew that he'd been had.

Lorcan stepped casually out from behind the corner. The hallway was a large and wide patterned with blue and ivory tiles, open-aired with curving columns. It might've been elegant once, had it not borne the marks of ruin: crumbling floors and chunks of stone strewn about; jewels ripped from the mosaics on the walls.

"Where," Lorcan said, "is Aelin?"

And that was when they felt it.

For a minute Lorcan thought it was Leta again, from countries away, sending her stupid bursts of power through the fabric of the world, but then he realized it was different, the pulse of magic. Distinctly different, as if it were not smoke and shadows but instead light and fire, crackling and burning with a strange sort of… electricity.

The floors rumbled. Lorcan, Cairn, and Connall all stumbled back in unison.

"Kasper," Connall whispered. His face had gone bone-white. "How-"

Another pulse of power: this one even stronger, rattling the stars floating above their heads.

"It seems," Lorcan said, "as if you've got bigger fish to fry."

And, like the fool he was, he ran straight for the two Fae standing in front of him, his hatchet raised.

Syeira felt something strange. A tug in her gut-an answering call. A flare through her veins.

She was standing in the middle of the healing rooms, chopping up tarragon and sage for a new poultice ordered by the head healer, when she felt it. Her knife dropped from her fingers with a clang, crashing to the cutting board.

The head healer bolted upright from where she was standing, observing a simmering batch of basil. "What in Deanna's name was that?" she said, hand pressed to her stomach, as if she'd felt the magic too.

Syeira felt the power somewhere _deep_ in her chest-similar to the magic she'd felt all those nights ago, and yet starkly different. It felt almost... familiar to her. _Right._

Syeira swallowed, hard. For once, she knew exactly what to say. "It's the beginning."

"Of what?"

"War," she breathed.

Raiden huddled in a corner, horrified.

Kasper was blazing. His skin was on fire.

His chains had fallen away, and he was glowing with flame: his entire skin was coated with the stuff, crackling and snapping like a rogue firecracker. Aelin's mouth was open, her eyes shining with...

Not fear. Not apprehension.

 _Pride._

Kasper's eyes were closed, his head thrown back. Wind whipped around his feet. He shone so brightly that Raiden couldn't look directly at him.

The whirlwind died down slowly, quietly, as Kasper reined in his power. His breaths came in pants; gasps.

"I'm going to kill Maeve," Kasper said.

And before anyone could react, he bolted out the door.

Leta and Vaughan had stopped in another town for the night. She was curled up in a bed (it wasn't half-bad once she got used to it), blankets wrapped around her shoulders, when she felt it.

She jerked upright, blankets thrown off her supine body, and pressed her hand to her chest. _Power_ -achingly familiar, as if it were half of herself; a half that she hadn't even known existed or was missing.

 _Whatwhatwhatwhat_

Before she could think twice, she shoved herself out of bed, hurled open the door, and ran across the hall to Vaughan's room. He threw it open before she could knock.

His hair was mussed from sleep, stubble coating his skin. He gripped her shoulders, his eyes wide. He seemed almost unhinged, at odds with his suave personality. "Are you alright?" he demanded, breath hitching.

"Yes," she said, blinking. "I-You felt it?"

"You're alright?" Vaughan repeated, eyes frantically running up and down her arms, her legs, as if searching for cuts or bruises or gaping wounds.

"I'm fine, Vaughan," she said, bewildered, and he hauled her into his arms faster than she could blink.

She stiffened for a moment before relaxing slightly, melting into his frame. He smelled so good-that same cloves and applewood smoke scent, silvery and crisp. He was whispering something, and though she could feel his breaths ruffling her hair, tickling her scalp, she couldn't make out what he was saying.

She fisted her hands in the cloth of his shirt and didn't let go. He was warm, and he felt, somehow, like home.

Leta had never had a home before.

It was a long while before Vaughan pulled back, somewhat calmer, but she still didn't let go. She didn't want to.

"I'm fine," she repeated, softer this time.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath, his eyes flickering. "I thought..." He swallowed. "I thought you might be in trouble. Might be hurt. I didn't… I thought it might…"

"You were worried?"

"I was terrified."

She met his eyes, then, her gold-and-blue pupils clashing against his. She felt a sort of tug between them, as if a cord had gone taut.

"Why?" she whispered.

"I don't... I don't know," he said, and he looked so lost, so uncharacteristically unsure, that she tightened her hold on him, and took a step closer.

She'd read books before. She knew... Had known...

Had never thought that she would...

"Leta," he said. His voice had gone uneven, and she took another step closer, her bare feet brushing against his. She was wearing nothing but a nightgown-a novelty, she thought, to have clothing just for sleeping. It was a cottony white, brushing her thighs. Her arms were bare, and cold.

"Yes?"

"This isn't... A good idea," he said hoarsely.

"What isn't?" she said, taking another step closer.

"This," he said. "I can't..."

She felt the tug again, the cord between them growing taut, and Vaughan stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath as if he'd been punched in the gut.

"Oh, gods," he said.

And that was when she kissed him.

She had to rise up to do it, toes pointing and curving. It was tentative, uncertain, her lips just barely skimming his.

His arms circled around her waist, drawing her closer, and he seemed to exhale against her mouth, his hand brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear.

It felt... right. Something inside of her clicked into place, almost imperceptibly, and she inhaled sharply.

She knotted her arms around his neck and fisted her fingers in his hair. The curls were thick, dense, and her fingernails scratched his scalp, acting on pure impulse. He groaned, snatching her forward until her hips were pressed up against his, skin brushing skin. His thumb stroked her neck, and she nipped at his lower lip, tugging with her teeth.

He broke away, swearing fluently. "Shit," he said raggedly, his hands tightening their grip around her waist. _"Shit."_

"I'm... I'm sorry," she said, taking a step back, but he drew her back, gently.

"No. I..." He searched her face. "It's you."

"What's me?"

"I never thought..." Vaughan's throat bobbed. "I... Don't be sorry. _Fuck_."

"Is that a... good thing?" she said.

"No. Yes. I don't know." He dragged a hand through her hair, his palm resting against his forehead. His locks tangled in a mess of cowlicks. She frowned and smoothed it back, her hand brushing against his almost unconsciously, and in unison, they both froze.

Her hand was so much smaller than his. His own skin was a few shades darker, his palm massive in comparison. He brought her hand down and curled his fingers around hers, his mouth parting slightly as if he found her broken fingernails and scarred, tan skin fascinating.

"Do you mind if I... sleep with you tonight?" she said.

Vaughan jerked. _"What?"_

"Not like that," she clarified hastily, her face burning. "Just... I don't want to be alone. Not right now. Not after whatever… that was."

He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers. Leta was not short-she thought she was about five-foot-nine-but he was still so much taller than her, so much broader. His thumb trailed a circle on her waist with exquisite care, as if she were made of glass and might shatter.

"I'm in such shit," Vaughan said huskily. "Such deep, unending _shit._ "

"Because of me?" Leta said.

He didn't answer. Instead, he tilted up her chin and kissed her, lightly, before sweeping her up as if she weighed nothing and heading back into his room, kicking the door shut behind them with his heel. He set her down on the bed with that same painful caution. Her nightgown rode up an inch or two on her thigh.

"You remember," he said, "when you told me about the stars?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"I think I knew then," he said. "I just didn't want to believe it."

"Knew what?" she asked, staring at him. His eyes were hazy, his mouth swollen and raw.

He didn't answer. Instead, he sighed resignedly and settled down beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her close. She turned around so that she faced him, her body flattened against his.

He brushed her hair away from her face. "Go to sleep, Leta," he whispered, laying a blanket over her. He held her close to him, as if he were afraid that she would suddenly vanish in a puff of smoke.

"Thank you," she said suddenly.

He swallowed and closed his eyes. "For what?"

"Everything," she said, and kissed him one last time, closing her eyes. He tasted of spices-of cumin, of cinnamon. Of cayenne.

She fell asleep like that in minutes, with her head on his chest, his arms circled around her too-thin form.

But for Vaughan, sleep was a long time coming.

Vaughan was in so much trouble.

Kasper was running.

He felt the fire _burning_ in his veins, tingling and sweeping through him in a maelstrom of sparks and fury. This, he thought, _this_ feeling must be the reason that people lost themselves in opium and liquor. This high, soaring and racing and looping.

He was flying.

He sprinted through the hallways. He was glowing with the pent-up flame of almost sixteen years, his gut swirling and swishing. He felt the well inside of him, but he felt no bottom to it, no limit to his gifts.

He was going to burn this whole gods-damned city to the ground.

A few Fae were standing by the corridor, conversing in panicked tones. Kasper caught snatches of their conversation, his pointed ears twitching and pricking.

"-five dead-"

"-two seconds-"

"-possibly-"

"-Salvaterre-"

He didn't care. He recognized the Fae. One of them, a red-haired, long-bearded mass of a male, had held Kasper down while they whipped his mother. Another had held his mother down while they'd whipped him.

They were all guilty. All of them.

He saw their faces when they beheld him in his burning, blazing glory, and he opened his arms, unleashing a wildfire of liquid gold.

All that remained of them in a matter of seconds was a stack of pale white cinders.

Kasper had just killed a male-had just killed _males._

But all he felt was his mother's anger sizzling through him, ripping his heart and his conscience to ashes, and he thought only, _moremoremoremoremoremoremoremore_

 _vengeance_

Connall didn't even see Lorcan coming.

Lorcan hurled his hatchet, and it sunk deep into Connall's chest, the blade severing flesh and bone with a sickening _thud._ The Fae sank to his knees in a muffled grunt, blood pouring from him in a deluge of carmine.

Cairn raised a brow as Connall collapsed and chuckled. "If you were half as good a warrior as you think you are," Cairn said, "you would've gone for me first."

He launched himself at Lorcan.

Cairn's weapon was a whip.

It had been a way to keep members of Cairn's troops in line at first, but over the years, the Fae had become cruel enough to train himself to use it in battle-hurling and withdrawing it at breakneck speed, lashing and thrashing. Cairn had had it tipped in silver, and the metal glinted as the whip came for Lorcan, slashing down in a deadly arc.

Lorcan neatly sidestepped it. Cairn was better than the average Fae, Lorcan would admit. But he was no match for him.

Lorcan closed his fist around the handle of his hatchet, yanked it from Connall's chest, and hurled it straight for Cairn.

It didn't pierce the Fae's heart-Cairn was too quick for that. Instead, it caught Cairn's cloak and pinned him to the wall just fast enough for Lorcan to withdraw a dagger and jam it through Cairn's throat.

The only sound in the hallway was that of Cairn gurgling blood and Connall wheezing.

"I wish," Lorcan said, "that I could say you two deserved better deaths."

He headed on down the hallway, pausing only to pull his hatchet from the wall and retrieve his knife. He wiped it free of red blood on the hem of Cairn's finely-made shirt.

Fenrys, Aelin, and Raiden gaped after Kasper.

Aelin was the first one to recover. "Raiden," she said urgently. "I need you to unlock me. I have to go after him-he can't-he won't be able to-"

Raiden did as she asked. He didn't dare waste any time. He looked at her cuffs, scanning the printed runes. "It's another riddle."

"Read it," Fenrys snapped. He was jogging his leg impatiently, gray-faced with anxiety.

"'I shriek and whistle,'" stammered Raiden, terror coursing through his veins. "'I carry but do not hold. I breathe and choke.'"

Aelin closed her eyes, shoulders caving. "Wind."

Raiden understood that one-knew why Fenrys swore. Rowan Galathynius was notorious for his wind and frost magic.

Aelin grabbed the still-bloodied rock from the floor, lifted it, and drew a long, jagged line on her skin. She didn't so much as flinch or wince as crimson blood welled to the surface.

Raiden traced the delicate, bold, curving Wyrdmark for wind on the cuffs in her blood. The chains snapped and clattered to the floor.

He was thrown back off his feet by the force of Aelin's fire.

It whipped through the room, blisteringly hot. It scorched his skin, scalded him, and Raiden knew there was an expression for blood boiling, that it meant anger, but he thought that his blood might _literally be bubbling._

By the time the infernal radiance had faded, Aelin was gone, the only part of her remaining the sparks that rippled in the air with faint, subdued grace.

Raiden had somehow fallen into someone-someone strong, and muscled. Fenrys was holding him, corded arms wrapped around Raiden's middle. Raiden's stomach flopped at the feel of Fenry's skin brushing against the sliver of exposed stomach where his shirt rose up from his trousers.

Fenrys was… strong. If his biceps were anything to judge by.

"Fuck," Fenrys swore. _He_ didn't seem to notice. "Raiden, unlock me. Now."

Raiden stepped out of the Fae's grasp. "I… You're not going to leave me behind, too, are you? Because I don't really think I could survive that long without... When…" He fumbled for the words, but trailed off as Fenrys put his hands on Raiden's shoulders.

"I'm not going to leave you," Fenrys said, his basalt eyes glittering with surprising sincerity. "I like you, Raiden."

Raiden's mouth had gone dry. "You don't… know me."

"I spent the last forty-eight hours or so in a cell with you," said Fenrys, his mouth quirking. "You're one of the better humans I've met."

Raiden flushed. "Thanks."

"I mean it," Fenrys said. He still hadn't let go of Raiden's shoulders. Raiden couldn't help but notice a blond curl that tumbled down over Fenrys's forehead, casting a shadow on his bronzed skin. Raiden had the sudden impulse to push it back-though that was ridiculous.

Wasn't it?

"Right," Raiden said. His voice was oddly uneven. "Let me see your cuffs, then."

Fenrys dropped his arms and held them out to Raiden. "Go on. Read."

"This one isn't a riddle," said Raiden. "It just says… ' _Inscribe the rune for dark and he shall be free.'_ "

The Fae tipped his head up to look at the dirt ceiling, exhaling softly. "Of course."

Lorcan felt Aelin's power rumble through the ground five minutes after he left Connall and Cairn bleeding on the floor, and swore.

He sprinted through the tiled hallways of Sollemere, pausing occasionally to dispatch groups of Fae. He was bleeding from a cut on his arm, but he hadn't met anyone that was close to a match for him. Lorcan had been the best warrior on earth for centuries-no one but Whitethorn had come even close, except…

Maeve had bested him with her magic. Aelin might have been able to as well, and her children…

Her children could almost definitely. A shiver spasmed down Lorcan's spine.

A Fae guard stepped out behind a corner, his eyes widening when he saw Lorcan. He opened his mouth to shout out a warning, but before he could, Lorcan had ripped out a dagger from the sheath at his side and flung it with perfect precision. It landed in-between the guard's eyes, slicing through his brain.

The guard crumpled. Lorcan kept running.

He was tracking Aelin's power now; her scent. It had changed a bit in the years since he'd last seen her, but somehow, she still had the faint undercurrent of jasmine and lemon verbena and wildfire. It was all muted, as if it had been stifled-probably by iron chains, Lorcan thought. But it was still there.

He stiffened, halting, as he caught Maeve's scent. He didn't know how to describe his former queen's perfume, other than it was old, and ancient, and somehow cruel in its wafting odor. It was what had drawn Lorcan to her in the first place. Hellas called to Hellas.

She was close. And she knew that he was there.

"You don't have power over me anymore, bitch," Lorcan muttered, and turned right, entering a columned, open-aired hallway.

But it wasn't Maeve he saw.

A figure streaked through the corridor, a blur even to Lorcan's seasoned, sharp eyes: a shock of flaxen hair; browned, scarred skin; ripped, tattered clothing; and even from a distance, eyes like the conifers of Oakwald Forest.

Ashryver coloring and Whitethorn eyes.

He was almost as large as Whitethorn and Lorcan himself, and _glowing_ , skin lit up like a lantern, as if fireflies swarmed under his skin. He left a charred trail of smoldering stone in his wake.

Lorcan barked a curse. As soon as he found that fire-breathing bitch, he was going to _kill_ her. Her and Rowan both.

 _Fools._

Kasper had never felt this free before; this _liberated._

He leaned into his _fury._ He wanted to _kill_ Maeve-kill her for all of the _beatings_ and _sobs_ and _horror_ that she had wrenched from him and his mother over the years.

Kasper was going to _kill_ her.

He sprinted through the corridors. He landed with precision, his teeth bared, fangs digging into his lower lip so hard that blood spattered on the stones below. He was tracking Maeve by her scent, his feet carrying him so quickly that his surroundings blurred.

He wasn't running. He had the distinct feeling that he was flying.

He could sense the wind currents around him; could feel the wildfire crackling in his veins. It had no bottom. He somehow knew, without his mother telling him, that his powers _had no bottom._

They were endless.

He was infinite.

He had felt his mother's release of power, and knew that she was tracking him, coming for him. He felt Fenrys's power, too; far more subdued, but there. Gods knew what Raiden was doing now. Hopefully Fenrys had protected Westfall.

Though Kasper wasn't particularly worried about that. The way that Fenrys had been eying the Captain's son, and the way the Captain's son had been eying Fenrys…

Were it not for their circumstances, it would've been amusing. Hell, maybe _because_ of their circumstances, it _was_ amusing.

Kasper didn't know. His sense of humor had become rather twisted over the past few years.

He reached the throne room. Someone was running after him, calling out, but he couldn't even distinguish the noise. This was the throne room where he had been whipped, with the battered, broken piano and those shattered windows. This was the throne room where his mother had been beaten to a bloodied pulp while Kasper and Fenrys had been forced to watch.

Kasper snarled and kicked open the doors.

Maeve was talking to a group of about ten Fae warriors, her more elite-Jacan, Solomon, a few others that Kas didn't recognize. She looked, for the first time in the decade and a half Kasper had known her, worried: her pallor had gone a pale ashy tone, and her words were clipped, bitten off in anxiety.

Their heads turned to see where Kasper was standing, framed in the doorway, blazing.

" _Stop!"_ someone shouted behind him. Kasper didn't bother to turn as another Fae, one he didn't recognize, came hurtling into the room, a whiplash of darkness and wrath. Nearly seven feet tall, with dark skin and coloring, and eyes voids of anger.

"Lorcan," Maeve breathed. "So you have come back, after all."

"Not for you," the Fae- _Lorcan,_ Kasper thought dizzily; _gods,_ so _he'd_ been the distraction-snarled. "Where is Aelin?"

" _Salvaterre?"_ a familiar voice said, and then Kasper's mother running into the room, her golden hair curling with luminosity. She didn't look like the mother he'd known. This was an insurmountable enemy, not weakened but _strong_ -far too strong, with hard, flinty chips for eyes.

Maeve raised a hand to her mouth, appearing distinctly queasy. Lorcan, meanwhile, wilted with relief.

"I've killed Cairn," Lorcan growled, stepping forward as Kasper and Aelin took a step back in unison, stunned.

Maeve's hand fell. Her lips were thin but resolute. "Of course you did," she said. "He's been no match for your talents, Lorcan."

Salvaterre peeled his lips back, exposing elongated canines, as if to say, _Choose your words carefully._

Despite all the stories that Kasper had heard about Lorcan Salvaterre, all of the despicable things the Fae had done, he couldn't help being rather impressed. He liked Lorcan. Although that was probably foolish.

"In fact," said Maeve calmly, sweetly, "if you'd like your former position back, I feel that you've earned it, Lorcan. Your position as my second-in-command is now open to you."

The throne room froze. In unison.

"But-" Jacan started, but Lorcan beat him to the punch.

"I have no interest," said Lorcan, "in working for you, you _bitch._ "

Aelin sucked in a sharp breath. Apparently, whatever she had been expecting, that wasn't it.

"I killed Cairn," said Lorcan. "And I killed Connall, too."

" _What?"_ someone said from the doorway, sounding as if all the wind had just been knocked out of him.

This time, Kasper's rage and sudden surge of power ebbed slightly, and he did turn. Fenrys was standing in the doorway, Raiden behind him, both silhouetted in shadow. Fenrys had gone white as parchment, his black eyes stark in a field of snow.

"Oh, gods," Aelin said.

"Lorcan," Fenrys said. He looked stunned, tripping over his feet, as if he'd taken a step expecting to land on solid ground and instead found himself pinwheeling in midair. "Connall. _Con._ Where… Where is my brother?"

No one said anything.

" _Where is my brother?"_

"You _whore_ ," Aelin spat, whirling and facing Maeve. "This is _your_ fault."

"I'm not the one that killed-"

"No, you just _enslaved and beat him every damn day of his life,_ " snarled Aelin. "I'm going to _kill_ you."

Jacan took a step forward, features contorting. "Get away from Her Majesty," he growled, unsheathing his sword in a neat movement.

"Get away from my mother," Kasper retorted, and heads whipped toward him. He still flickered with muted electricity.

Jacan curled his lip. "Make me."

Kasper gnashed his teeth and rose a hand.

The room flashed brightly in a burst of white-hot light. It lasted only a millisecond, searing and blistering, but when it dissipated, everyone was blinking, as if stars danced in front of their eyes, and Kasper's hair was sticking up around his head with a static charge.

Jacan lay in a smoking heap of chars, barely recognizable.

"Lightning," Maeve whispered. "Of course. Wind-ice-fire-"

"I'm going to kill you, too," Kasper said to Maeve. His mother was looking at him as if she'd seen a ghost-as if there was something in the set of his face that had stunned her.

But it was Lorcan that chuckled. He had a dazed expression, but he was _laughing._ "He looks just like you, Galathynius," he said. "He doesn't have much of Rowan in him at all. But never fear-your daughter has enough for the both of them."

Wildfire erupted in a circle around the room, but it didn't come from Kasper. It came from his mother. "What," she said in a low, dangerous tone, "did you just say?"

"Your daughter is alive," Lorcan said. "I've met her."

"Where is she?" Kasper said, his chest contracting.

His… sister. His other half. His twin.

Kasper's eyes darted to Fenrys. Despite how much taller the Fae stood than the Captain's son, despite how much larger, Fenrys was leaning on Raiden. Westfall was propping him up, as if Fenrys no longer had the energy to stand.

"On her way to Terrasen by now, hopefully," said Lorcan.

" _Hopefully?"_ Aelin sputtered.

"Now," Maeve said, "is not the time for this. Lorcan, don't be a fool. Come back to me." She held out her hands, smiling pleasantly.

He laughed. "Not a chance."

Aelin took a step forward, her eyes glinting. "You," she breathed, jabbing a finger at Maeve, "are _mine._ For what you have done to my _son_ "-sparks jutted from her hand in a flurry of fireworks-"and my _daughter_ "-more sparks, crackling and burning-"and my _mate._ "

An arrow of fire shot straight for Maeve's chest, more a point than a real attack, but before it even reached her, it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"Dear," Maeve purred. "Darling. Do you really think-"

Kasper roared.

Later, he'd remember the events of the courtroom in blurred snatches. As the years would go by, he'd be unable to think of them without nausea roiling in his gut, and he'd do his best to forget them-to forget all that happened next.

He'd never be able to, much as he tried.

The room again flared with that vivid, dazzling light, ten times brighter than it had been moments before. A single scream of eight voices rose up in unison, pitched, and broke off in a horrible silence.

Eight bodies lay in a heap of remains. The eight guards that had remained to protect Maeve.

The queen herself was gone.

Kasper had killed eight elite Fae in a second with lightning.

"Holy burning hell," Lorcan said hoarsely.

"Maeve," Aelin stammered. "Where-where is Maeve-"

"Gone," Raiden said. "She's gone."

Kasper's legs gave out, the strain of too much magic dredged up too fast, and he fell to the floor, collapsing into darkness.

There were twenty or thirty more of Maeve's Fae that survived the initial wave of destruction, but they were never found.

The sun dawned frail and faded pink that morning, streaking Sollemere's horizon with faint longing. There were five of them that lived and stayed behind to see that sunrise: Fenrys, Lorcan, Aelin, Kasper, and Raiden. Two members of Maeve's first cadre, a warrior queen, a prince, and a captain's son, all uniquely bruised and broken.

After Kasper collapsed on the floor, Fenrys had carried him to the kitchens, where Aelin rummaged around in cabinets until she found the herbs to patch him up. Lorcan did final sweeps of the perimeter, but gleaned nothing: Maeve and the rest of her order were gone, vanished, as if they had never been there at all.

Aelin and Kasper fell asleep in the corner of the kitchens, mother holding her son by the still-warm hearth. Lorcan took charge of the group. "We leave at dawn," he said, and no one had the strength to argue or even agree.

Fenrys didn't speak much. After Lorcan returned from scouting, Fenrys stood, brushing off his blood-spattered trousers, and said, "Where is my brother?"

His voice held none of its usual charisma. It was not cheerful, or charismatic, or charming. It was bleak; resigned.

Lorcan met Fenrys's eyes, and centuries of understanding passed between them-years of long-forgotten battles and spattered blood. "I'm sorry," said Lorcan quietly.

Fenrys nodded. "I know." He glanced down at his hands, as if he expected to see his twin's blood there.

"He's in the courtyard hallway," said Lorcan.

Fenrys exhaled and squared his shoulders. "Cairn is there too?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to bury my brother," Fenrys said. "I'll be back before it's time to leave."

Raiden unfolded himself from the corner. He felt tired, and traumatized, the memory of Kasper's lightning flashing before his eyes.

"I'll help you," Raiden said.

Fenrys flitted his gaze toward him, surprise and a bit of thanks flickering in his features. He didn't say anything, but Raiden came forward and knotted his fingers around Fenrys's, palm against palm.

Lorcan watched them both, his eyes narrowed.

"I'll help," Raiden said again, and he followed Fenrys to find his dead brother's body.

The courtyard hallway was spattered with crimson liquid dried in russet stains, patches of it still fresh. Connall was sprawled out near a pillar, spread-eagle, his black hair crusted. His eyes-glassy obsidian, exactly like Fenrys's-were wide open and unseeing.

Fenrys took in a jagged, ragged breath, and gripped Raiden's hand tighter.

It was Raiden that detached himself, gently, from Fenrys; who kneeled on the floor, his knees wetting with the Fae's blood, and closed Connall's eyelids. Raiden had no love for Connall-he'd been the one that had captured Raiden and dragged him here, after all. But Raiden owed it to Fenrys, to the one person that had showed Raiden kindness- _kindness_ -in this otherworldly prison.

"Thank you," Fenrys said, words ragged. He knelt down beside Raiden and lifted his brother's enormous body into his arms as if it weighed nothing. "I don't want-I don't want to bury him in the cemetery. I want him somewhere else."

"I'll follow you," Raiden said, "wherever you want to go."

And so Fenrys walked-through the hallways and cake-crumbled pathways of the ruined city, into the avenues and ruined roads, past wreckages that were once homes or schools or churches, where the wild dogs bayed and howled all night.

It was on the outskirts of the city that Fenrys halted. A stone quarry sprawled before them, rocks glittering in the opaque moonlight.

They didn't bury Connall underground. Instead, they piled stones on top of him, so many that the Fae became part of a mountain of ore, streaks of coal and granite gleaming and winking.

Fenrys and Raiden sat there for awhile, hand-in-hand. Fenrys didn't say anything; tears just slipped silently down his face, parting the dirt and grime on his cheeks.

Raiden wondered whether Connall would've done the same for his brother if the roles had been reversed.

Raiden wondered if that was why Fenrys was crying.

It was a long time before Fenrys and Raiden made their way back to the castle. No one new had shown up, but it was best to vacate the premises as soon as possible. Lorcan was still in the kitchen, Kasper sitting up weakly, groggily, Aelin smoothing down her son's curls gently, sponging his forehead with a cool cloth.

"Someone has to go after Maeve," Lorcan was saying.

"I don't disagree," Aelin said calmly as Raiden and Fenrys walked into the kitchens. They were suffused with a warm glow from the fire; all the candles had been lit. Raiden wondered if it had something to do with Aelin. "But I'm not going to be the one to do it, not now. I'm going home, Lorcan." She swallowed, painfully. "I'm going home."

"I'll go," Fenrys said.

Lorcan, Aelin, Kasper, and Raiden all whirled to look at him. Fenrys shrugged. "I'm still bound to Maeve," he said. "I can track her-and when I find her, I can send a signal to you. This fight isn't over yet. We all know it."

"Track her? By yourself?" Aelin said, concern tugging downwards at her mouth. "Fenrys… After everything that just happened, do you really want to be alone?"

"He won't be," Raiden said, words spilling out before he knew what he was saying. "I want to go with him."

Everyone's jaw lowered half an inch. Raiden included.

"Human," Lorcan said. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you have any training? Any gifts at all?"

"I'm smarter than I look," Raiden said. "I was the one that freed everyone, remember?"

"Luck," Lorcan said.

But it was Aelin that said, "Raiden. Don't you want to go home? Think about this for a minute-think about what it would really mean. If you go with Fenrys, you might never see Erilea again."

"I know," Raiden said. "Look…" He scrubbed his face with his palms. "I want to do this. I've never been much use to anyone before. I want to help. Maybe… Maybe I will be kind of useless. But no one should have to do this alone. Lorcan, I'm sure you want to get back; I've heard enough stories to know why." Somewhat incredibly, Lorcan dropped his eyes. "And Aelin and Kasper, you've been through enough. I want to do this-of my own free will. I swear it on my life."

Silence.

Fenrys's hand fell on Raiden's shoulder, that familiar bolt of heat swooping through Raiden's arm. "I'd be glad to have you," Fenrys said roughly.

Aelin's eyes softened. "You are your father's son," she said quietly to Raiden. "Perhaps more than his equal."

Raiden's breath snagged in his throat. He had never…

Never thought… that he could be anything like his father. Or that he would ever be good enough, brave enough, to make anyone anything other than ashamed of him.

"Tell Dad… tell Dad that I love him," Raiden said hoarsely. "Mom, too. And tell them that I'm doing this for me."

Aelin dropped her chin. "Of course."

"And," Raiden said, "if you see Syeira, tell her that I love her, too."

Kasper's head snapped up. "What? Syeira?"

"Dorian and Manon's daughter," Raiden said, confused. "The heir to the Crochan throne. I thought you knew who she was, although I guess it's easy to-"

"Tell her that you _love_ her?" Kasper said, pupils wide as quarters.

Behind Raiden, Fenrys had gone stiff as a board.

Raiden flushed. "She and I had a… It's nothing. Just please do it, if you see her."

Kasper sank back against the hearth, dazed, but Aelin's lips tugged up in a rueful smile. "I'll do that, too. I miss Dorian." Her chest caved. "I miss them all."

"It's decided, then," Lorcan said. "Kasper, Aelin, and I will go back to Terrasen, and Fenrys and Westfall will track Maeve."

They lapsed into quiet, burdened by the weight of the oncoming war.

Aelin lifted her head, her eyes glistening with silver tears. "I'm going home."

It was only later that it occurred to them that while they had found Connall's dead body, they had not found Cairn's.

* * *

 **A/N: The next chapter will be... very... action-packed. :) Sorry (not sorry) for _the scene._ By now you probably know what I'm talking about, lol.**

 **Review list time!**

 **kittysniper9**

 **SparklelyWonderful**

 **apez009**

 **Guest**

 **Anonymous (Not... quite. Kasper was the other hidden twin, but I like the idea of Deanna's daughter. I'll try to work that in.)**

 **Guest**

 **fairymaster (I know, I made Syeira so unlikable. Her character arc is long, though, and Kas will have a lot to do with it.)**

 **ClearlyNerdy**

 **Real Life Trash**

 **Guest**

 **Guest**

 **Mintcat (I'll have to try it! I've been going through all of Cassandra Clare's books lately... I'd read parts of her series, but never all of them. Those are super awesome if you haven't read those too! If you haven't, start with the Infernal Devices, go to the Mortal Instruments, then the Bane Chronicles, then the Dark Artifices, and then Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy. Aah!)**

 **cindykxie (You are literally so sweet, and trust me: the only reason I'm even capable of writing is because it's literally like all I ever do, like, 24/7. I'm addicted. Practice makes perfect. :D)**

 **silverstargenesis**

 **Guest**

 **You guys are AMAZING! The next chapter will involve more Leta & Vaughan, some important meetings, and at least one major plot twist. Eek! :)**


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N: I'm back! (Finally! T.T) I'm SO sorry it took me forever (I'm actually the worst), but here it is: a shining whopping 16k-word chapter. *wipes sweat off brow and dusts hands* Blame trig for the long wait. I know I do. I blame trig for just about everything these days. Freak storm in the Philippines? Probably trig. A star exploded several billion light years away? TRIG.**

 **ANYWAY… Thank you SO MUCH for all the lovely reviews! :D You guys are the best! I'm going to try to get the next chapter up before the end of February, but unfortunately I can't make promises. Usually when I'm writing for fun it means I'm ignoring my responsibilities (ugh. Who needs them?), lol. But I have a three-day weekend coming up, so I'm going to try and become a writing machine. (Pray to the creative juices. I know I do. :P)**

 **I hope everyone's enjoyed the story thus far, and I hope you all like this chapter, too! Enjoy! :)**

 **RECAP: Leta and Vaughan are traveling through the Cambrians to go to Terrasen to meet Rowan, who Vaughan says can help Leta control her magic. (Leta is blissfully unaware that Rowan is, in fact, her father.) Last night, a startling burst of power from the east brought Leta and Vaughan… erm… *cough*** _ **closer together,**_ **so to speak. So there's THAT.**

 **Meanwhile, Maeve and most of her cronies have fled to gods-know-where, and Fenrys and Raiden have decided to track her. Raiden wants to make his father and his country proud, and Fenrys is still a bit shattered by Connall's death.**

 **On the other hand, the other group of survivors from Sollemere—Lorcan, Kasper, and Aelin—are heading west back to Terrasen. It was recently discovered that Kasper has lightning powers, and neither Aelin nor Lorcan quite know what to do with that. KASPER doesn't know what to do with that. Aelin's still pretty concerned by the fact that Lorcan knows her daughter, who she'd thought had been dead for about, oh, sixteen years (give or take).**

 **Back in Orynth, things are no less hectic. Syeira was revealed to have extreme healing powers, and she brought Channon back from these freaky hallucinations caused by a rogue attack on the palace. No one died, but no one quite knows what to make of the monsters that invaded the castle, either. Now, Syeira is working in the infirmary with the hopes of becoming a healer, and while Rowan, Lysandra, Aedion, Elide, and most of Terrasen's other gentry knows that the son of Adarlan's Captain of the Guard was missing, she doesn't.**

 **So… there's THAT, too.**

 **Enjoy! :D**

 **Oh, also: as per request from a reviewer, I'm labeling each POV to make it easier to discern. :)**

—

CHAPTER 13

 **LETA**

Leta woke to the sound of birds chirping just outside her window, tweets slipping in through the frosted panes.

Her senses came to her slowly. She was tangled in someone else's body: her legs were intertwined with someone else's, her head on their warm chest, someone's hand buried in the crook of her waist, in the sliver of soft skin between her hip and ribs. She shifted, and the scent of smoke and cloves enveloped her, somehow soothing, easing something taut inside her chest.

Leta opened her eyes. Her silver hair was strewn over Vaughan's chest—the hand he didn't have tucked in her waist held a fistful of the strands, as if he'd fallen asleep smoothing it back. He was peaceful in sleep, she thought, surprisingly so: his face was relaxed, at ease, his lips parted slightly. There was none of the odd, undefinable tension that slumbered in his veins and features in his waking hours. She propped herself up on one elbow and brushed one of his sable curls behind his ear.

His eyelids fluttered, and the hand on her hip tightened its grip. She sucked in a sharp breath as Vaughan stirred beneath her, rolling over on his side and pulling her back to him, his body curving around hers in some kind of sleep-addled embrace.

"Vaughan," Leta whispered.

He nestled his head in the curve of her neck. "Hmm?" he murmured, still asleep. His foot scraped against the back of her calf, and an electric jolt pulsed low in her stomach.

"Vaughan, wake up," Leta said. Her voice sounded strange, even to her own ears; slightly strained and uneven. She sat up and shook him by his shoulders, suddenly urgent.

He blinked blearily, lips twisting into a grimace as a ray of sunlight fell over the bed. He shaded his face and yawned.

She knew the exact moment that he realized just where he was—and who he was with.

His eyes flew open wide, and he tensed. He took her in—her sleep-mussed quicksilver hair, her rumpled nightgown, the blanket half-wrapped around her sun-browned shoulders.

His throat bobbed.

"Oh, gods," he said.

Despite herself, Leta's stomach sank: that answered _that_ question, at least. "I should go," she said quietly, attempting to untangle himself from his embrace.

"No. _No_ ," he said, his fingers wrapping around her elbow. "Leta, _wait._ "

She stopped, hugging her arms to her chest. Vaughan sat up too, scrubbing a hand over his chin. Stubble had grown there overnight, shadowing his jawline.

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Come here," said Vaughan gruffly, tugging her into his lap. She didn't protest as he drew her against his chest. He was so much _larger_ than her, every inch of it muscle and broad shoulders. His arms snaked around her waist, hands splaying over her skin.

"I'm sorry," Leta said, because she had nothing else to say.

He stiffened. "Sorry?"

"I didn't mean to… shove myself on you like that," she said, cheeks burning. Gods, she was going to die of mortification before one of those ilken bastards ever got to her.

He slumped, and he made a huffing sound, as if he were _laughing_ at her. " _Shove_ yourself on me?" he said. "Gods, Leta, if you knew…" He swiveled her around to face him. This close, she could see the maroon flecking his chestnut irises. Such strange coloring for eyes, brown and burgundy, but it fit.

"If I knew what?" she said unsteadily.

He sighed, as if with resignation, and leaned in and kissed her. His lips were startlingly soft, gentle as they scraped over her mouth. She turned around fully, leaning into him, pressed together so close that she could feel the warmth of his skin.

Part of her wondered what the hell she was doing, but the other part…

"Shit," Vaughan murmured against her mouth. " _Shit."_

She drew back. "Bad?"

"No." His eyes were hazy, mouth swollen. "Good. _Too_ good."

He leaned down and kissed her again, and the faint birdsong just outside the windows, the swallows and bluebirds nestled in the ancient conifers of Wendlyn, fell silent.

—

 **SYEIRA**

There had been no more attacks at Orynth since the day Channon was nearly driven mad, but the patrols and sentries were on high-alert.

The whole kingdom was abuzz. Everyone with magic had felt the second jolt of power, and people were out celebrating in the streets. Two mixtures of Aelin and Rowan: it couldn't be a coincidence. They had to have a child; an heir.

Among the nobility in the castle, the reaction was significantly less jubilant.

Syeira was spending most of her time in the infirmary these days. The head healer had taken to teaching her the basics of healing with and without magic, and Syeira, for once in her life, found that she had an affinity for something other than sharp retorts.

She liked learning the names of the herbs; those common enough to be used in the kitchen and those poisonous but precious if brewed in just the right way. Rosemary, thyme, sage, basil, oregano; those were herbs she knew. Belladonna and amaranth she had heard of. But southernwood, hellebore, heliotrope, hyssop?

She and the head healer clashed often; the older healer had a fondness for delegating mundane tasks to Syeira; chopping up mandrake roots and larkspur, simply boiling water, cleaning out the rows upon rows of dirtied flasks. Syeira knew that she was more skilled than the menial tasks suggested, but the head healer was firm: she would start from the ground up, magic or no magic, Crochan heritage or no Crochan heritage.

So Syeira, of the Havilliard, Blackbeak, and Crochan Lines, Princess of Adarlan and Heir to the Crochan Kingdom, slept on a cot in the room that all the apprentice healers shared, and wore their same scratchy brown wool that was so dark it hid the stains of venomous juice and draught splatters. She ate in the servants' hall, cleaned and swept and washed dishes until her skin was cracked and red from the rough lye soap that they used, and bid her time.

Perhaps if she hadn't been so fascinated by healing, she would have stormed out in a hissy fit. But she liked the trade, the language of hissing and burbling and sweet, tangy scents; of herbs with names that stretched on for days and remedies that only the most learned healers knew.

She'd yet to slip into her solid-gold-eyed trance again, the calm place that had given her the ability to suck the poison from Channon Ashryver's veins. But she knew she would find it again, if she applied a little persistence and patience.

She might be spoiled and hot-tempered, but underneath it all, she was her mother's daughter, and she rose to a challenge.

On the day after the second power had been felt, Syeira was summoned from the infirmary by Lady Elide.

The healers' laboratory, normally so noisy and filled with the chatter of apprentices and novices, had gone quiet save for the faint sound of the boiling water scraping against the sides of the glass flask. Lady Elide was standing near the front of the room, regal as ever, skin white and lovely as a pearl, hair pinned neatly with a silver comb.

Syeira came in from the hallway; she'd been instructed to fetch the infirmary's laundry from the steamy, packed launderers'. Her hair was curling from the humidity, a wooden basket full of white bandages in her arms.

When she came into the room, everyone stared at her.

Syeira's gaze flicked to Lady Elide. "What do you want?"

There was an intake of breath at her speaking to one of their most favored nobles in such a way, but Syeira was past caring.

"I need you to come with me," Elide said. A small smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth. "There are some… things… we need to discuss."

It didn't take a genius to figure out what she meant. _The power._

Syeira set the basket down on the counter and reached behind her to untie her apron. She folded it neatly and set it down as well. "Do I need to change?"

"Probably," Elide said. "There's a court meeting in two hours. You've been instructed to attend."

Syeira nodded, but felt a strange spark of disappointment in her chest. But that was silly. Why would she be disappointed? She had the chance to wear her fine silks again, to step back into the role of heir to one of the most powerful countries in Erilea, maybe even the world. Why would she feel regret at leaving the _infirmary_?

She shoved the strange turmoil aside. _Stupid._ "I'm coming," she said instead. Lady Elide inclined her head down the hallway to the main corridors of the castle, but Syeira paused, looking back at the healers.

"Thank you," Syeira said to them. They all blinked, startled. "I know I'm not… the easiest person to deal with. But thank you all the same for giving me something valuable."

She turned around, startled silence abounding in the laboratory, and followed Lady Elide silently out of the infirmary, past the hallways of screened rooms and storage closets of herbs, the scrolls of ingredient lists and ancient recipes.

Outside, the lower level of the castle had lost the sweet, perfumed smell of the healing rooms, though the scent of rosewater and spices clung to Syeira's skin. "How is Channon?" she asked. She'd had no chance to hear about his progress in the days that she'd been working in the laboratory, and she'd worried.

"He's doing well," Lady Elide said. "As if it never happened. They're trying to figure out what the thing was that attacked them, but there's been no luck yet, either in tracking or identifying. Poor Dallie is having nightmares." She hesitated. "Aedion and Lys… they're so grateful. Truly."

Syeira didn't say anything.

"There is nothing that matters more to them than their children," Elide said, and there was a note of grief in her voice. "Nothing. Much like your parents."

Syeira started at this. She'd never really thought about how her parents cared for her—she'd always more or less taken their love for granted, as if it would always be there, as if it were just a given. She supposed what Elide said was true. Once, when she was very young, she'd gotten lost at Morath—wandered off the wrong way in one of the caverns they used for their camp. When she'd finally found her way back, her father had pulled her to him so tightly that Syeira had thought her bones would break. He'd been trembling, white-faced, wild-eyed.

She could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen her father afraid: when her sister, Calynn, had tumbled from the back of a horse when she was six and almost broken her neck; when Bevyn's birth brought on unexpected complications and they thought her mother would die from it; when Orion had caught summer fever when he was only four and almost wasted away.

"There's nothing that matters more to me than my family," Syeira said, surprising herself. But gods, it was true. She missed them with a physical _ache_ in her chest, missed Bevyn's pranks and Calynn's animated talk about books that no one wanted to hear. She missed her father, and the way that she somehow forgot to be afraid when he was there, and her mother, who in rare moments would stroke Syeira's hair, or touch her elbow; the small, little things that told Syeira that her mother loved her.

Lady Elide flicked her eyes to Syeira. "You look like a healer," she said. It was true: in Syeira's coarse shift, her hair tied back with a handkerchief, her normally glossy curls frizzy from the humidity of the healer's kitchen, she could have been anyone, had it not been for her golden eyes. "What's your middle name again?"

"Sorscha," she said. "Why?"

Elide only exhaled. "I thought so." She didn't answer the second part of Syeira's question.

"The meeting's about the power, right?" Syeira asked.

"Yes. There was an emergency session last night—only Aedion, Lysandra, Rowan, and myself attended—and now we need to talk to everyone. All the nobles." Elide took a right up a flight of stairs, and Syeira kept pace with her. "A summons has been sent to all of the other gentry scattered throughout Terrasen, and to Adarlan."

"Adarlan?"

"I believe your family is on their way as we speak," Elide said. "This is getting big, Syeira. Erawan is moving again, and this power in the east—"

Syeira had frozen, midway up a step. " _Erawan?"_

Elide twisted her lovely lips in sympathy. "It's not confirmed," she said. "But there have been rumors circling—the ilken have been sighted again in isolated spots. Banjali, the countryside of Fenharrow. And it would fit with the strange attack on Channon. Erawan is on the move."

Syeira closed her eyes, leaning against the wall. "I thought we'd have… I don't know. Time."

"Sometimes borrowed time is all we get," Elide said, and she sounded strange; faraway and melancholy.

"We can't fight both Maeve and Erawan," Syeira said. "Not if we want a victory."

"The unwinnable wars are the ones we need to win the most, Syeira. That's the first and hardest lesson of being queen."

 _But I'm not a queen. It shouldn't have been me. I'm a… I'm a mistake._

Savagely, Syeira quenched that voice in her head. It didn't matter if she was a mistake. She _was_ queen, like it or not, and she would adapt.

She straightened her back. "The unwinnable wars," she said, "are the only ones worth winning."

And she pushed past Elide, shoving herself up the stairs, a bitter taste filling her mouth.

—

 **KASPER**

Lorcan led Aelin and Kasper to the river, where a boat was waiting.

 _Boat_ might've been a generous term for it. It was a heap of creaky, mildewed wooden boards, squeaking as it swayed on the river's current. Its mast was crooked, the sail holey. Shards of pink sunrise fell through the gaps in the tattered cloth.

Both Aelin and Kasper stared.

"You have got," Aelin said finally, "to be kidding me."

"I'm not." Lorcan stepped onto the boat with ease, and it swayed under his weight. "You two coming or not?"

"What's the plan, Salvaterre?" Aelin said abruptly. "I mean, really? Where on earth are we going to go from here on a _boat_?"

"West," Lorcan said. "Sollemere isn't that far from Doranelle—maybe a day's journey from the border. From there it'll be about a week to cross Doranelle, which we can do by river, and then we'll go up to the northern coast and go over sea to avoid the mountains. You don't want to cross the Cambrians in winter. Trust me: I've been there."

"So have I," Aelin said shortly, and Kasper glanced at her, surprised. He hadn't known that. "And where from there?"

"We'll circle around to a port on the northern coast of Wendlyn," he said. "From there we'll get a bigger ship to cross over to Suria. We'll get an embassy there to take us to Orynth."

Aelin's chest rose and fell swiftly. She took a step closer, eyes flashing. "You said you knew my daughter," she said, and her voice cracked on the word _daughter._ "You said you'd seen her."

"I have," Lorcan said. "She looks very much like Rowan, but she has your eyes. That was how I knew—Ashryver eyes."

"Where is she?" Aelin said, fists balling at her sides.

"Safe," said Lorcan. "I sent her to Terrasen with someone I trust. You know about the witch's cabin?" Aelin nodded, and he continued, "I found her when she was running away from the Ironteeth. I wanted to make sure of who she was, so I made a deal with her and got her to bring me back to the cabin. It had been burned to the ground, and Maeve was waiting for us."

Kasper went still.

"Leta sent Maeve running," Lorcan said, smiling sardonically. "She's got enormous power over water—maybe the most I've ever seen. And she had this sort of freezing silver fire. I don't know how to explain it." He shook his head. "It was a fusion of your magic and Rowan's." Aelin flinched at the sound of the name. "Like Kasper's lightning, but less recognizable."

"But she's _safe,_ " Aelin said desperately. "Right?"

"Yes. She's on her way to Terrasen as we speak. I sent her with someone I trust—someone who gave me a blood oath. Not that she can't more than protect herself."

Aelin swallowed. "You should've taken her back yourself."

"I had to track Maeve back to you first," Lorcan said. "I didn't have a choice. She's fine."

"She better be," Kasper's mother hissed. "Or I'll kill you, understand?"

A shiver went down Kasper's spine at the cold certainty in his mother's voice. She would kill Lorcan, Kasper realized. And who was he to judge, when he had killed so many himself?

His chest tightened, and he shoved the thought away. He didn't want to think.

"If we're using the boat," Kasper interrupted, "I could make it go faster. Push the wind through the sails."

Lorcan's brows rose, but Aelin didn't look surprised; she just set her jaw. "Kas—"

"I need to build up my magic, right?" Kasper said. "Here's a way to do it."

"He's right," Lorcan said, but fell silent at Aelin's murderous glare.

"Kasper—" Aelin started, but then cut herself off, as if she realized the folly of arguing. "Tell me if you feel tired, alright? At all. I'm not risking you burning out when I don't have the supplies to care for you properly."

"Sure," Kasper said, stepping onto the boat. It rocked beneath his feet, and he tuned into the sense of the currents around him. He needed to focus. He didn't want to think about the whip marks on his back, or the charred bodies, or the way he'd killed, _hungered_ for the blood, hadn't even _paused…_

 _Monstermonstermonstermonstermonster_

Maybe living with monsters for so long had made him into one.

"Get on," Kasper said. "I want to get the hell out of here."

For once, Aelin Galathynius did as she was told. She boarded the boat, and Kasper sent a gust of wind through the sail. It caught, and the boat zoomed down the river with such force that both Lorcan and Aelin were thrown back against the prow with a _thud._

"Holy burning hell," Lorcan swore, and threw an accusatory glance at Aelin.

But Kasper was lost to it, lost in the roar and anguished scream of the wind, as if it, too, were crying out for all that had been loved and lost.

He didn't watch the ruined skyline of Sollemere recede behind them, didn't care as the terrain slid into the yellowed grasslands of the strange, foreign country, didn't care that he was leaving behind a life of slavery and silent weeping. He could spare no thoughts for all that had been taken and wrenched from him, and what he had yanked back for himself—and its cost.

He felt filthy and guilty, burned and broken as the city of nightmares itself.

—

 **FENRYS**

Fenrys trudged through the stables.

The sun was starting to rise, citrusy sunlight warming the sunbaked terrain. He'd gone straight for the stables, Raiden following in his footsteps. Fenrys suspected the boy hadn't always been obedient, but his time in Sollemere had taught him to watch and wait, if nothing else.

Not _boy,_ Fenrys amended, though not quite man either. The stables were dirty, half of the roof missing, in the same state of ashy decay as the rest of the city. They smelled of stale hay and manure. Fenrys watched Raiden walk around, examining the cracked leather saddles mounted on the walls, the pitchfork propped against the wall.

No, Fenrys thought; Raiden was still young, but he wasn't a boy. He still had slim hips, and he couldn't quite be called muscled. His reddish-brown hair fell in a fringe over his forehead, his cinnamon-colored skin spattered with freckles. His front tooth was chipped. Fenrys liked that his front tooth was chipped; it was somehow endearing.

 _Raiden_ was endearing: innocent and smart-mouthed, if a bit stupid and naive. Fenrys hated that Raiden was endearing, hated that he was brave enough to come with him. Hated that Raiden had come with Fenrys to bury his brother, hated that Fenrys had needed him there so desperately.

"I don't think there are any horses left," Raiden said.

"There are," Fenrys said, opening the stall to his left.

A demented pack pony stood inside. Its one working eye had rolled up into the back of its head.

Raiden looked at Fenrys skeptically. "One horse? For both of us? Would it even _hold_ both of us—or just you, for that matter?"

Fenrys put a hand to his chest. "Did you just call me fat?"

Raiden rolled his eyes. "Yes, Fen. That is exactly what everyone thinks when they look at you—'Gods, that Fae is fat. He should be on a diet.'"

 _Fen._ They hadn't really known each other long enough for nicknames, but Fenrys liked it anyway. Then again, they hadn't really known each other long enough to embark on a journey that would almost certainly end in death.

"I knew it," Fenrys announced, clinging to humor like a safety blanket. "Finally, the truth comes out after all these years."

"Glad to be of service," Raiden said dryly.

Fenrys liked that Raiden was dry. He liked that Raiden was witty.

"The pack pony isn't for us," Fenrys said, putting his hand on the creature's flank and nudging it forward. "It's for our things."

"Things?"

"I've got about half an armory to cart along," Fenrys said. "And I'm not strapping six swords to my back."

"Six swords?" Raiden said, appalled.

"Three for me, three for you."

"I don't really know how to use a sword," Raiden said.

Fenrys cocked a brow. "Isn't your father the Captain of the Guard?"

"That's mostly why I don't know how to use a sword."

 _Rebellious teenagers._ "Fine," Fenrys said, sighing. "Then I'll have to teach you."

"Teach me?"

"Stop parroting everything I say," Fenrys said, unsheathing the sword at his side. It had been his father's, given to Fenrys when he was eight. Fenrys had felt horrible at the time—he hadn't really wanted it; it had been Connall that looked at the sword with those wide black eyes.

Fenrys handed the sword to Raiden, who closed his hand around the blade and yelped. "Fuck! That's _sharp_!"

"Language," Fenrys said mildly, without any real bite. He stepped around Raiden, steadying his waist. Raiden dropped the sword, and it fell to the ground with a clatter. Fenrys shook his head, lips quirked, and picked it up again, handing it back to Raiden, this time by the pommel. "You hold it like this," Fenrys said, adjusting Raiden's hands. He had nice hands, not flecked with scars as Fenrys was used to. _Not that that would last long now._ "Here, and here."

"Oh," Raiden said. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"Take it," Fenrys said, withdrawing and circling to face Raiden.

"The sword? But it's yours," Raiden said, brow furrowed.

"I don't want it now anyway. Take it, Raiden. It's time you learned how to use a weapon. You shouldn't be a complete liability."

Raiden scowled. "I'm not a liability."

"Oh, yes you are. You're a skinny liability."

He glowered. "Then why are you letting me come?"

"Your wit, mostly," Fenrys admitted, patting the pack pony's head. "Your chiseled jaw. Not really your personality as a whole."

"Thanks," Raiden said flatly.

"Glad to be of service," Fenrys said, grinning, and this time he was the parrot.

 _Squawk._

—

 **SYEIRA**

There were dozens of people filtering into the ethereal throne room, and no one paid Syeira any mind.

Her things had been as she'd left them in her chambers, and she'd dressed herself, plucking a plain blue dress off the hanger. It was one of her least favorites; it clashed with her eyes and did nothing for her figure, but she didn't want to wear red, and she wouldn't go in purple, the color of royalty.

For once, Syeira just wanted to remain in the background. This was not her day.

She'd had time to wash, but the scent of the infirmary and its herb oils clung to her skin. She liked that—it made her feel calm in the sea of fur-cloaked nobles, grounded somehow by the scent of citronella. This time there were no children skating around the pond, and the room seemed empty and sad without their joyful shrieks.

The throne room looked slightly different; there were three silver tables parallel to one another facing the dais, each in a row. The long benches were gone; in their place were wooden chairs with cloths printed with family seals draped over them.

She had a dark blue cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and her fingers played with the silver clasp as she hung back on the fringe of the ladies and lords, as invisible as she could possibly be. On the dias, she saw Rowan standing near his throne, Fleetfoot by his feet, talking to Aedion, who was gray-faced with exhaustion.

Rowan looked… Rowan looked like a mess.

The throne room had lost its deluge of gentle snow trickling down from the ceiling, and on impulse, Syeira rose a hand and started it again, calling down gentle flurries. Rowan's head snapped up and he found her in the crowd, his eyes narrowing.

She hadn't done it to be malignant. She'd done it because… because in a time where people spoke of death and wars, there should be pretty things to look at like snow.

Idle chitchat floated around her, and she caught snippets of it here and there. "— _no real proof—" "—choice do we have—" "—owe it to Aelin—" "—sacrifice—"_

A gust of wind flew through the throne room, slamming the ice doors shut with a _bang,_ and conversation quieted. Aedion and Lysandra had stepped down from the dais, and Rowan stood before his throne, imperious and gray-faced.

The nobles seemed to take this as a signal, and they found their seats at the table. From as far as she could gather, the most important were near the front; Aedion and Lysandra were at the foremost seats of the middle table, Elide beside them. Startled, Syeira saw a linen with three family symbols on it across from Elide—the gold-and-red dragon of Havilliard House, the inky raven of the Blackbeak Clan, and the blue-and-black cauldron of House Crochan.

A chair for her.

Syeira made her way past the lords and ladies to the front of the table. Technically she should be above Aedion and Lysandra, and definitely not at the same place as Elide, but she wouldn't push particulars. There was enough anxiety in the room.

She pulled out a chair and sat down. No one paid any mind to her.

"I have called this council," Rowan said one everyone was seated, "to discuss the matter of the attack on the castle some days ago, and the powers felt both last night and some weeks before."

Silence. Crickets chirped.

Rowan took a deep breath. "It is my personal belief," he said, "that the attack on Channon Ashryver was a sign that Erawan's forces are regrouping, and war is coming once again."

—

 **LETA**

It was Vaughan that brought things to a stop.

The kissing deepened, becoming consuming in a way Leta hadn't even known was possible. Vaughan pressed her down onto the bed, his hand easing up her thigh. Almost by accident, his fingers slipped beneath the diaphanous fabric of her nightgown.

He jerked back as if he'd been shocked. " _Hell,"_ he said raggedly.

She let out a breathy laugh, and he rolled off of her, flopping to the other side. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, his eyes hazy.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I can't do this."

She stiffened. "What?"

"It's not you," he said quickly.

Leta didn't respond. She was studying the ceiling of the room, tracing the watermarks spiderwebbing across the plaster with her eyes, and wondering how she could have ever been so stupid.

"You're young, Leta," Vaughan said. "I'm almost a century old. You've been locked away in a remote cabin all of your life—I can't…" His mouth was turned down, fraught with lines of pain. "I can't take advantage of you. Not like this."

"It's not taking advantage of me if I want it, Vaughan."

"It _is_ ," he insisted hoarsely. "You don't know. You haven't seen the world, anything—you've never even kissed someone other than me, have you?"

"When I was thirteen, a group of hunters came through the mountains," she said. The ceiling was dripping with moisture, mold creeping up the corners. "One of them thought it would be a good idea to… violate me, I guess, on a dare."

Vaughan had gone very still.

"It didn't get that far," she said. "I kept one of Mohana's knives on me, and I stabbed his wrist before he was able to…" She didn't finish her sentence. "But that was my first kiss. So I have, actually."

"But not by _choice._ " Vaughan propped himself up. The maroon chips in his eyes stood out like the crimson feathers of a redbird against a winter landscape. "I won't… I won't do this to you, not now."

She snorted. "So, what? You'll come back later in a couple of years? Wait for me to mature?"

"I'll wait until you've seen the rest of the world," he said quietly. "Then you can decide whether or not you still want me."

Leta closed her eyes and slid over a bit, climbing over the sheets to put her head on his chest. He went rigid, stock-still, but she didn't do anything else but lay next to him, listen to his breathing.

"Okay," she said. "Okay."

—

 **VAUGHAN**

She smelled of wilted flowers—of petals pressed in-between the pages of a book, of dried sprigs of herbs dangling from the ceiling rafters, of the wick of a candle sputtering and slinking out in a freedom of smoke and ashes.

Her hair was quicksilver—mercury and antimony and titanium, shining like the stars she knew and loved so well.

He didn't move as she slept, her face pressed into the cloth of his shirt. He stroked her hair gently, gingerly, soft strands falling through his fingers.

Her heartbeat thrummed against his skin, steady and even and slow. He closed his own eyes and succumbed to it, lulled to sleep by her breaths and scent, phantom withered flower petals wrapped around him like an inescapable veil of truth.

—

 **DALEKA**

She went to Channon when the nightmares came.

Sometimes her mother or father heard her screaming as she thrashed in her bed, and they came running. Dallie had woken to her father clutching her to his chest, smoothing her hair, whispering quickly, frantically, _It's alright, it's alright, I've got you, I've got you. You're safe. I've got you._

Or sometimes she woke to her mother wrapping her arms around Dallie, and her mother didn't talk, just rocked her daughter back and forth until sunrise, wiping the tears from Dallie's cheeks.

But when Dallie woke by herself, she tiptoed down the hall to Channon's room. He left his door open for her, and she would climb into his bed, snuggle up against him. He seldom stirred, but she felt comforted by her brother's presence. She knew, somehow, that he wouldn't let anything happen to her.

She was curled up in a chair in his room now, morning sunlight filtering in through the windows. Most of the adults were down in the throne room, but Dallie had been given strict instructions to stay with her brother, out of sight and out of mind.

Of course, he'd promptly shifted into a cardinal and flown downstairs so he could eavesdrop on the meeting undetected. She was alone.

She decided to sharpen her sword.

Her father had given it to her as a gift—not a wooden sword, but a real one. She supposed he wouldn't have if he hadn't known that she was already better than warriors twice her age, that she had the balance and fluidity of a Fae. The tips of her ears were pointed, though her father's weren't; a dormant trait passed down by the grandfather she had only met a handful of times.

She scraped the whetstone along the sharp edge of the blade. It was only when a shadow fell over the metal that she paused.

It came from behind her—something outside Channon's window. Dallie furrowed her brow and swiveled in her chair, facing the diamond panes.

A boy a few years older than she was, around Channon's age, was sitting atop a massive wyvern hovering just outside. For a second the sight was so ludicrous, even in a place as laced with magic as Terrasen, that Dallie just stared, mouth open. The boy had a shock of white hair and eyes like the ice floes that bobbed in the harbors of Suria in wintertime, and he was dressed in black gear, a crimson cloak clasped at the curve of his pale neck. His fingers ended in elongated iron claws. And his _wyvern_ —the thing was _huge._ Dallie had seen them only a handful of times, and they had grown fuzzy in her memory. This one was crimson, with unblinking eyes of cold gray.

The boy reached out and tapped on the window once, twice with his claw. When he spoke, the words were ones she knew.

"Open the window and let me in," he said. His breath fogged on the air.

Dallie shoved herself out of her seat, holding her sword aloft. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Just let me in, please," the boy said. "I'm not technically supposed to be here, and I'm freezing my arse off."

"If you're not supposed to be here, go somewhere else."

The boy sighed and rose his eyes heavenward. "My name is Orion."

"That doesn't mean anything to me," Dallie said. "I'm not letting you in without a good reason."

Orion frowned. "Who are _you_?"

"I asked first!" she said petulantly, stamping her foot.

He lowered a level glare at her. "My full name," he said, "is Prince Orion Chaol Blackbeak Crochan Havilliard, of Havilliard House, the Blackbeak Clan, and Crochan House, Heir to the throne of Adarlan." He smacked the window with his hand. " _Now_ will you let me in?"

—

 **SYEIRA**

The meeting was a disaster.

The situation had been explained to the nobles of Terrasen—both the war brewing with Maeve and Erawan, and the unexpected lineage surfacing, and the panic and fear brought out the worst of the barons and baronesses crammed into the room.

"Erawan _must_ be the priority!" one man shouted, slamming his fist down so hard on the table that it rattled.

"We can't defeat Erawan without Aelin Galathynius," another woman argued. "She was the one that raised the army that enabled us to push him back—"

"And she's _gone_ now," Darrow, an old, old adviser to the throne, yelled, standing up with enough force to knock his chair to the ground. "She's _dead_ —the power that we've felt is a fluke, if anything. We can't keep on chasing after mist and shadows when there is a real enemy that we need to defeat!"

"Let me remind you, Darrow dear," Lysandra purred silkily, twiddling the stem of her chalice between her long, slender fingers, "that many of you did not believe that Erawan _was_ a real threat until you saw a battlefield. And you did not pay fealty to your queen until she was gone."

Silence.

"We could have had you exiled," she continued, and Syeira had to give her credit: Lysandra knew how to ensnare a crowd. Her jade pupils glittered like fireflies in midsummer. "Branded as a traitor to the crown. But where are you now, Darrow? Lounging comfortably in your estate in the south?"

Darrow went brick-red.

"Arguing past mercies will get us nowhere now," someone else said. "We need to pay attention to the future. Is Maeve even still a real threat?"

"Do not," Lady Elide said sharply, "underestimate her. The second you view her as someone who is not a threat is the second you write your own death sentence."

"So what are we supposed to do?" the same man demanded. "She hasn't been seen of or heard of in years! And we're supposed to believe that she's still out there—still a threat?"

"Yes," Rowan said, and again the protests quieted. "Until I see her body myself, she is and will always be a threat. I served her for three hundred years. _I know._ "

So the conversations went.

An hour or so later, someone cried, "And why is the royal family of Adarlan coming? Don't they have something better to do with their time?" Syeira stiffened as the woman continued, "They _ruined_ our kingdom not so long ago. Can they even be trusted?"

Syeira couldn't help herself. She turned, looked right at the woman, and got the satisfaction of seeing her pale at the icy expression on Syeira's face. "Might I remind you," Syeira hissed, "that I am sitting _right here_ , and that things have changed quite a bit in our country. A king with raw magic and a witch queen sit on the throne." She lifted a hand, and snowflakes wove in-between her fingers in a gleaming flurry of crystal. "We do not perform burnings anymore, and it is precisely this kind of mob mentality that led to the genocide in the first place."

The woman's mouth worked, but she didn't say anything: the man next to her did. "The royal family must have ulterior motives," he pressed. "Didn't one of their own go missing not so long ago? The son of the Captain of the Guard?"

Syeira froze, and Aedion swore fluently under his breath. "What?" she whispered.

"The Havilliards always want something!" someone called, and the sea of bodies rose up in agreement. Part of Syeira thought savagely, _Never mind the fact that my mother and father have bled for you silly people in your raccoon-fur hats in ways you can't even begin to imagine,_ but the other part of her…

"Rai?" she whispered.

"Syeira," Lysandra began, but the look on her face—panic, regret, sympathy—answered the question before she could get another word out.

"He's gone?" Syeira said. Her voice sounded distant, echoing down a faraway tunnel.

"They don't know," Aedion said. "He never showed up in Antica. Syeira—"

But she was already gone, pushing away her chair and running from the room.

She barely made it to the corridor.

Syeira was not a crier, and if she did cry, she did it silently, in private. Seldom did she let any real emotion other than rage and spite show on her face in public.

She didn't intend to change that now.

She sank against the wall, trembling and white-faced, and remembered.

Images flashed across her vision. Raiden, five years old while she was four, leading her through the cavern camps at Morath, covering her eyes, saying _Don't look, don't look,_ but she did anyway, because it wasn't fair that Raiden had to see the blood and the dying and she didn't.

Raiden, eight while she was seven, showing her how to make a cat's cradle with strands of yarn.

Raiden, ten while she was nine, holding her as she cried because that day had been the first time that someone had said she was spoiled and useless, and would never be a half-decent queen.

Raiden, twelve while she was eleven, saying, _My father doesn't want me. I've never been good enough for him. It's alright, I've accepted it—it's just the way things are._

Raiden, the night of her birthday party, the way he'd taken her and kissed her, and Syeira had thought, _Finally,_ because this way she could ignore the trumpets and the fanfare and lose herself even for just a few snatched seconds.

The ability to forget was such a precious, fragile thing.

She remembered waking up next to Raiden when they were children, and waking up beside him when they were something more than friends—those risky, perfect seconds just before he woke, when his hair tumbled over his forehead and his chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

He'd been her only friend, her only _anything,_ for as long as she could remember. And now he was gone. In trouble.

She knew Raiden—he might've scurried off, but he would've sent a note, something, _anything,_ telling them that he was safe. That he hadn't meant he wasn't.

Someone's hand fell on her shoulder, and she didn't even look up.

Someone wrapped their arms around her—slender arms, thin though corded with muscle. A woman's arms.

"I'm sorry," Elide said tightly, holding her and rocking her back and forth. No one had held Syeira like this since she was seven. "I'm _sorry_."

Syeira closed her eyes and let Elide hold her as she finally broke free and wept.

—

 **LETA**

She slept for another few hours. Vaughan woke her around noon, rustling her awake. "I only rented the room for so long," he said, easing out from under her. "We've got to go."

She rubbed her eyes blearily. Vaughan was changing his shirt, his muscled form silhouetted in the afternoon light filtering in through the window. She yawned and dragged a hand through her hair. "I'll go change," she said, averting her eyes from his bare chest.

Before she left, he caught her elbow.

"Thank you," he said lowly.

She glanced up at him, bewildered. "For what?"

"Just…" His hand dropped to his side, and he brushed a tendril of hair from her face. The gesture was surprisingly gentle. She had to dig her nails into her palm to keep herself from doing the same to him. "For understanding. For being here. I don't know."

She smiled at him then—a real smile, genuine if sad. And, without another word, she slipped out of the room, the cottony material of her nightgown brushing against her thighs.

She gave one last look back as she left. Vaughan was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at his hands. He seemed bewildered, somehow, as if he'd lost his footing in their strange, upside-down world of magic and blood and did not know how to find it again.

Thirty minutes later, she met him outside the inn. His hair was damp and curling around the nape of his neck, and her own hair was braided back, hanging in a silvery coil. She fell into step beside him, walking out of the mountain-fringe town at his side. Their footsteps had fallen into sync, and she felt that odd tug inside her chest again, as if there was a piece of twine tying them together, one end looped around his ribcage, the other around hers.

Without thinking, she slipped her fingers through his. He didn't react save for a faint squeeze in return and a small upward quirk of his mouth.

On the outskirts of the town, as the mud-and-daub buildings faded to a sea of endless conifers, he inclined his head toward her, and she could read the unspoken question in his eyes. _Ready?_

In response, she shifted—it was like second nature to her now—and clucked her beak at him. _What's taking you so long?_

He laughed and shifted too, and they took off together, their wings catching the air. It was an unusually warm day, sun kissing her head, and she ruffled her feathers.

This time, she didn't use the wind to make them go faster.

—

 **ORION**

The girl was little and blonde, but Orion had a feeling she could stick him on her shortsword if she tried. Or at least come close. Almost no one got close to Orion Havilliard these days.

She was on the opposite end of the room from him. Orion had told Draiga to fly off as he'd slid through the open window, and his wyvern had agreed, though with an irritated huff.

Orion wished he could go in through the front door, but that simply wouldn't work in this case. There'd be too many questions.

"You don't _look_ like a prince," the girl said now, clutching her sword tighter.

He grinned, taking care to let his iron teeth slide down, his claws protruding from his fingers. She went white. "They say I take after my mother."

The girl was pale but unafraid. "I've seen Queen Manon," she said cautiously, and cocked her head, as if making a T-chart of the similarities between their appearances. "You do kind of look like her."

He laughed. It was an understatement; he'd heard it all his life. He had his mother's same cruel, fine bone structure, her white hair; even her iron appendages. He was the only male to ever get them, as far as he knew.

No one quite knew what to do with that.

"Why are you here, then?" the girl said, unfailingly suspicious.

Orion studied her. She had Ashryver coloring, through-and-through, with golden hair and those exquisite eyes. "You're Aedion's daughter, aren't you?" he asked abruptly.

She didn't answer. She didn't even seem startled.

He felt his respect for her grow.

"I'm here," he said, flicking one of the curtains, "because my family was journeying up to Orynth, and I got tired of their slow progress. I rode ahead on my wyvern."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"Not… technically," he admitted reluctantly. "But I was bored."

The girl lowered her sword. She began, slowly, to smile.

"So that's why you snuck in?" she said. He nodded. She stuck out her hand. "My name's Dallie," she said. "If you want, you can hide in my closet."

He blinked, surprised. It wasn't often that people surprised him. She didn't seem wary of his appearance, or terrified of his claws and fangs. She just seemed… accepting.

"How old are you?" he asked, shaking her hand warily.

"Nine," she replied. "Nine-and-three-quarters." She squinted at him. "You must've been riding a long time. Aren't you hungry?"

Orion was startled—again. "I… yes."

"I'll take you down to the kitchens," Dallie said. "The cooks like me. I bet I can get them to make you a strawberry tart. I like strawberry tarts. Don't you?"

"Uh... yes?"

"Then let's go," she said, heading for the door.

"Um, Dallie," he said. "Don't you think that I might… stick out a little in the kitchens?"

She turned back to him, her brows knitted. She scrunched up her face. She was freckled all over, her skin tanned and peppered with scabs, as if she were used to getting into scraps.

He could see her taking him in again: his shock of pearly hair, his startlingly blue eyes (that had been his sole gift from his human-ish father), his iron claws and fangs; his otherworldly aura of the entitlement that came from being heir to a country and loaded with enough magic to make him a threat to Erawan himself.

"Oh," she said. "Well." She grabbed a blanket off the bed and tossed it at Orion. He caught it, startled. "Just cover yourself with this, okay?"

She left the room, clearly expecting him to follow, as if what she'd said had ironclad logic.

" _What?"_ Orion sputtered.

He followed her out, unable to tell if the girl was joking or if she was actually serious. The moment he stepped out into the hallway, he ran smack into a large, burly chest.

Oh, dear.

" _Orion?"_ someone said in a choked voice. Orion took a step back and saw that it was Aedion Ashryver, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, stubble growing wild over his chin. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days, with crushed-violet circles lurking underneath his bloodshot eyes.

"Um," Orion said. "No?"

Aedion tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. His daughter—Orion was sure of it now; the resemblance was striking—was standing a few feet away, toeing her foot at the floor guiltily. _Timing,_ Orion thought bitterly. _Of course._

"I don't suppose," Aedion said, "that the rest of your family is here, and you didn't do anything stupid, or make any messes that I'll have to clean up?"

"Um," Orion said again. It was his new catchphrase now. "Well…"

"I'm going to kill your parents," said Aedion now, matter-of-factly. "Both of them. Bloodily."

"I wouldn't necessarily advise it," Orion said. "In my experience, they're rather hard to kill."

"We'll see," Aedion said, and without preamble, grabbed the tip of Orion's ear and began dragging him down the hall.

—

 **LETA**

They made slow progress through the mountains, Leta and Vaughan, drifting lazily on the currents. At night, they made camp in the forest, and though they made their bedrolls a few feet away from each other, during the course of the night, they somehow found each other. One morning, Leta woke up to find her hand knotted in Vaughan's. Another time she woke in his arms. They seemed to be inching closer and closer to each other, and she didn't know what would happen with they inevitably collided.

One night, huddled around their campfire—the nights had grown progressively colder, and sometimes Leta thought she smelled the scent of snow drifting on the wind—Vaughan leaned back against a log and said, "Tomorrow, we'll reach a port town."

Leta had been playing with the frayed edge of a blanket, but she dropped it abruptly, fingers stilling. "What?"

"We're about half a day's trek from a northern coastal village," Vaughan said. His face was unreadable. "We can probably find a ship that's heading to Suria—one of the last of the season, I'd wager. We're lucky the first snowfall hasn't come yet."

"Suria," Leta echoed. "In Terrasen."

"Yes."

"You're taking me to see Rowan—the person that can help with my magic." She furrowed her brow.

Something flickered in his eyes, but all he said was, "Yes."

"I've never seen the ocean," Leta said wistfully. "Have you?"

He snorted. Vaughan was in an unusually acerbic mood tonight, she noticed. "I grew up in a city built on fish's bones, love. I've seen the ocean."

"I didn't know that," she said, surprised. But then she supposed she knew very few things about Vaughan, even though he knew almost everything about her. "What's… what's it like?"

"The sea?" She nodded, and he picked up a twig from the ground and snapped it. "It smells."

"Oh, come on," she said. They were on opposite sides of the fire, and the flames framed him in a flickering glory of carmine and Valencia. "You've got to have more than that. Wasn't the ocean pretty? It's always seemed pretty in books."

"I was a slum rat," Vaughan said. "My sister was a prostitute. She barely made enough money to board me at a house a few blocks away from her brothel. I lived on the ugly side of town—where the docks were rotting away. Some of them still tethered forgotten boats to their posts, but most of them were disintegrating. Sometimes we'd dare each other to walk out onto the piers that were really bad, and they'd crumble underneath our feet. Once one of them snapped in half and pinned a boy down—swallowed him whole. Shoved him beneath the sea. He never washed ashore."

She felt the blood drain from her face.

The water…

A well…

Drowning, drowning, drowning…

"The sea smelled like rotting fish and brine in our part of town," Vaughan continued, oblivious. He wasn't looking at her. "And the air was thick with opium smoke. The girls had painted faces and half their teeth, and they sold themselves for a night in an opium den or a drop of gin. There were no parks. The canals were black with slime and brackish water—all the water had gone gray. If you went over to the East Side, you saw the most beautiful things… Roads paved with cobblestones made of diamonds, houses painted like the tulips that bloomed in the cemeteries during spring. Docks winding on for miles, and this time there were no gambling houses or courtesan houses to ruin the beauty. The ships that rolled in had white sails like silk, and the captains had coats with gold buttons and swords called sabres that had a pommel that bloomed like a flower. I wanted to be one of them once—wanted to be a captain. Wanted to sail away and never come back."

"Why didn't you?" Leta asked quietly.

"I did, eventually," he said. "My home nation is far, far to the east of here—it would take us months to get there. In my native tongue, we called our village _Al Madina min Safarat Iindhar_ : the City of Sirens. I sailed to Doranelle, and I never looked back."

She'd never thought that Vaughan might've grown up speaking a different language than the one he did now. It made sense, of course. The foreign words sounded beautiful tumbling off his tongue—thick and free-flowing, falling from his lips like raindrops plummeting from a branch.

"Your language is lovely," Leta said, because she did not know what else to say.

"That's the first time I've spoken it since the day I left home," he replied, a shadow fleeting over his features, and Leta thought it odd that he still referred to that city he professed to hate so dearly as _home._

"Maybe you should speak it more often."

He quirked an eyebrow. "What? No intrusive questions about my past?"

"No." She pulled her knees up to her chest. "I told you before, and I'll say it again. You'll tell me what you want me to know. I won't force the things you want to forget."

His eyes had gone oddly dark, the burgundy flecks almost disappeared. " _Limadha ant jamilatan jiddaan?"_ he said.

"What did you say?" she said, her lips parted.

He didn't respond. Instead, he looked down at the ground. "Whatever happens," he said, "whatever may come to pass, I want you to know… I want you to know that I am unspeakably grateful to have had the pleasure of knowing you."

"Vaughan," she said, alarmed.

"Goodnight, love," he said, getting to his feet and sitting down on his bedroll, made a few feet away from hers. "Get some rest."

She stared at him, but he had his back turned to her, the rest of his form covered in a scratchy woolen blanket.

She was having none of it.

Leta reached over and touched his shoulder. He stiffened, but didn't move, didn't say anything. "You," she said, "are the first and only person in my life I have ever trusted."

His breath hitched.

"You have given me something so precious that there are no words for it," she said. "You've given me the luxury of having someone that cares about me other than myself."

"Leta," he said hoarsely.

"Whether you realize it or not," she said, "you've saved my life. You've given me something to live for. So thank you."

She was about to climb back over to her own bedroll, but he sat up suddenly, and so quickly that she didn't even see him move, he brought her to his chest.

His arms were around her. She could hear his heart thudding. She wrapped her own arms around his neck, more slowly, and inhaled the scent of cloves and smoke, closing her eyes.

It was there, as he held her, that for the first time in her life, Leta felt safe.

—

 **VAUGHAN**

 _Limadha ant jamilatan jiddaan?_

Why are you so lovely?

—

 **KASPER**

It was twilight, and Kasper was standing near the prow of the boat, watching the waves sough and sigh, rising and falling rhythmically. They lapped at the underside of the boat gently, rocking it back and forth, back and forth.

Their journey had been a blur. Kasper had propelled them, faster than should be possible, so fast that they'd reached Doranelle in a matter of two days, so fast that Lorcan had said they would reach a port on the northern coast of Wendlyn around midday tomorrow.

Kasper had seen his mother looking at him oddly a few times as he'd stood at the front of their larger, more stable ship, as he'd gripped the winds and shoved them forward. It was instinctive, easy as breathing. He'd yet to feel or sense a bottom to his power, though he supposed it was there. It couldn't be long now: he'd been sailing them for days.

His mother had gazed at him so oddly, blinking as if the sun were in her eyes though it was at her back. She'd turned away from him, and she hadn't quite met his eye for a long while after that.

It had been, of all people, Lorcan who told him why. He'd approached Kas at the stern of the boat a few days ago, wind ruffling their hair.

"It's because you look like your father," Lorcan said.

Kasper glanced sideways at him. "What?"

"Standing at the prow like this," Lorcan said, gesturing. "Commanding the winds. You look like your father. It's funny—you're not much like him, and you don't look a whit like he does, but… You have some of his mannerisms. This is one of them."

Kasper eyed the water now. The ocean was like nothing he'd ever seen—an endless expanse of water, fathomless and inky black.

He heard someone's footsteps, and felt rather than saw his mother's presence at his side.

"You've been quiet these past few days," she said, leaning out over the railing. It was odd—his mother looked only a few years older than Kasper did, and outside of captivity, the chains gone and broken, she seemed even younger. The wind lifted her golden hair, making a halo around her heart-shaped face.

"I've been trying not to think too much," he replied.

It was true. Kasper had found that it was easier not to think these days—not about Sollemere, or his father, or the lives he had taken so gladly. Certainly not about the lightning that had burst from his body like a living torch, or the scars on his back that were beginning, finally, to heal.

It was the scars inside, he knew, that would take longer. If they ever healed at all.

"I'm so, so sorry, Kas," his mother said. Her voice broke.

He whipped toward her, eyes wide. "For _what_?"

"For everything," she said. She wiped the back of her wrist across her face. "I should… I should have been a better mother to you. I should have been there for you. I should've gotten you out of there."

" _Mom,"_ Kasper said, aghast, and her shoulders sagged. "You did _everything_ for me. Everything that you possibly could. You're the only reason I'm still alive."

She didn't look at him as she pulled him in for a hug. "I love you," she said, pushing herself up a couple of inches to kiss his forehead. "You know that, right?"

"Of course I know," he said, flabbergasted.

"Get some sleep," she said, withdrawing and turning away. "Tomorrow's going to be a big day."

"Mom—" Kasper started, but she was already gone, descending the narrow, rickety staircase to the hold below.

He stared out over the water, his fists closing over the railing.

He'd kill Maeve. He'd do it without a second thought—without blinking. And if he wept, it would be from joy, not sorrow.

He didn't know what that said about him as a person, that he hungered so for blood and vengeance and death, but he didn't want to think about it just then. He didn't want to think about anything.

—

 **LETA**

The town was enormous—the largest that Leta had ever seen, nearly a city. It sprawled out over the land in a haphazard labyrinth, cloistered by a set of imposing marble cliffs and a forest of sweet-smelling conifers. The buildings were made of a sort of weathered lumber, splintery and worn. Vaughan told her it was called driftwood, and for some strange reason, she liked the word immensely: _driftwood._ As if there were massive trees just floating, drifting, over the sea.

They entered the port town from the northern entrance. The roads were made of stone, rough-hewn and gravelly, the sort that crunched beneath her boots. People of all shapes and sizes and colors passed her, speaking animatedly in languages she didn't know, had never heard.

Market stalls lined the avenues with striped awnings and ledges displaying wares of every kind, from swords to baked goods to pearls plucked from the bellies of oysters. At one point, she stopped stock-still in the middle of the street and grabbed Vaughan's arm.

He whirled, hand already reaching for his bow. "What? What is it?"

"What are _those_?" she breathed, already walking toward a stall displaying round, pastry-like confections. An aromatic, earthy, deep scent rose from one of the cakes, and it glistened with frosting.

"Chocolate cupcakes, miss," the vendor said. He was portly, and jolly, with a mustache that twitched whenever he spoke. His eyes darted to Vaughan. "Would you like to buy a treat for the pretty lady, sir? It'll make your bed more comfortable, guaranteed."

Vaughan arched a brow. "What a charming proposition," he said, but Leta tugged his sleeve.

" _Please,_ Vaughan," she said. "I've never had chocolate before. It looks _delicious._ "

"She's never had _chocolate_ before?" the man said, blinking.

Vaughan tossed her a look. "Leta—"

" _Please?"_ she wheedled. " _Vaugh-an—"_

He grumbled something under his breath, but pulled out three copper coins from the purse at his waist and handed them to the vendor. "I'm not going to do this every time you want something, you know," he said. "We'll be broke before we get to the docks."

"I know," she said gleefully, accepting the cupcake. It was wrapped in wax paper. She got a bit of icing on her finger, and she licked it off. "Oh, my _gods._ This is the best thing I've ever _tasted._ " On impulse, she reached up on her tiptoes and planted a smacking kiss on Vaughan's cheeks. His face turned red, and she grinned at him.

"She's got you wrapped right round her little finger, doesn't she?" the vendor said, chuckling.

"No..." Vaughan said, frowning, but Leta was already pulling him away, shrieking with delight at a jewelry stall.

"Ooh, _look_ ," she squealed. She'd never thought herself particularly partial to gems, but there was something about the way they _glittered…_

The woman at the jewelry stall smiled as Vaughan came up behind Leta, scowling. "You know what would be just right for your skin tone?" she said, tapping her fingers against her lips. "Turquoise. They'd match your eyes exactly. Don't you think so, sir?" she said, addressing Vaughan.

He just sighed with resignation as Leta examined a necklace dangling off a peg on the post. "Oh, Vaughan, _look._ Isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" It was a drop pendant, crystal and glittering.

"Genuine diamond," the woman put in.

Vaughan rolled his eyes as Leta widened her eyes and attempted to appear as guileless as possible. " _Please?"_

"You're going to be the end of me, love," he said resignedly, reaching into the purse at his waist and flicking over a few coins to the vendor. "I hope you know that."

She grinned and flung her arms around him. She knew it was silly, but she'd never had this before—a chocolate cupcake, a necklace. She'd never worn anything just because it was pretty, or it made _her_ look pretty.

When she drew back, he was muttering underneath his breath, but he was smiling all the same.

The wind shifted, and she caught a scent of the sea—of salt and brine. It ruffled her hair, already coming loose of her silver braid. A white seagull flew overhead, wings flapping, and emitted a caw that echoed through the lane.

"Come on," Vaughan said, extending an arm. She linked hers through his, humming faintly. She felt a surge of happiness, alien and unfamiliar… almost giddiness.

"I've never been this happy before," she said, grinning at him. "Never."

He smiled at her, and brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. His dimple was showing, and she had the odd impulse to kiss it, though she refrained from doing so. "I'm glad," he said. He took the pendant still dangling from her hands and unhooked his arm, stepping behind her. He laid the chain across her collarbone and fastened the clasp, adjusting the weight of the stone on her chest. "There. Lovely."

She leaned into him, and he put an arm around her waist this time, his hand resting in the crook of her hip. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, and she felt that tug beneath her ribcage again. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and ruffled her hair.

The wind shifted again, bringing with it new scents—spices and foods she'd never smelled before, hadn't known existed. The buildings stretched up high here, signs jutting out from their sides, advertising food and rent and sales. They ambled down the street together, Leta munching on her cupcake.

He glanced down at her fondly. "You have a bit of icing on your chin," he said, and took his thumb and wiped it away, right by her mouth.

Her breath snagged, and he swallowed. He didn't drop his thumb. Instead, he let it linger, brushing against her lower lip.

And then she caught another scent—one that she didn't recognize, and yet did. One that was familiar, somehow, as if she'd known it all her life. _Two_ scents that were familiar. And one that she _knew_ —Lorcan.

Vaughan stiffened. His hand dropped to his side. " _Shit."_

"What?" she said. "Vaughan, what is it?"

He took her by her shoulders, quickly, and pivoted her to face him. He'd transformed in the last second—no longer was his face a mask of amusement and fondness. It had become panicked; the faint dusting of pink in his cheeks had faded to puce. "Leta," he said, urgently. "I need you to listen to me."

She took a step back, startled. "What? What's going on?"

"Whatever happens," Vaughan said, "I need you to know that I love you."

She went white.

The whole world went white.

"That was never a lie," he said. "I _love_ you." His voice was hoarse. "Please believe me."

And that was when Leta heard it—the words from the alleyway that changed her life forever.

"Get," a woman said, "the _fuck_ away from my daughter."

It was a beautiful voice, low but delicate, and so achingly _familiar_ that it sent ripples up and down Leta's skin, made her whip her head around.

A woman was standing about fifteen feet away, at the foot of the street. She had long, golden hair and tanned, bronzed skin riddled with white scars—skin so similar to Leta's own that it made her pale. Her build was lithe, corded with muscle. She was maybe an inch shorter than Leta, and striking, the kind of stunning that would be described in books as _beautiful as sin._

But it was her eyes that caught Leta's attention.

 _Ashryver eyes_ —blue-and-gold.

Behind the woman was a boy about Leta's age, towering and muscular, with a crop of golden hair exactly like the woman's and eyes like the pine trees slinking their way across the Cambrians. He was the kind of handsome that made her do a double-take, that almost made her jaw drop a full six inches, with a chiseled jaw and a flawless profile.

He, too, felt _familiar._ Her magic crackled, as if answering in response to his.

And behind him was Lorcan. _Lorcan._

"Aelin," Vaughan said resignedly, putting his hands up. The desperation was gone, and his features had gone carefully, deceptively blank. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

—

 **KASPER**

It all happened so fast.

They'd docked at an algae-ridden pier that seemed to be crumbling into detritus. It barely bore the weight of Kasper, Aelin, and Lorcan as they alit from their boat.

"We'll need a ship if we want to cross the ocean," Lorcan said. "We'll probably have to steal one."

None of them balked at the prospect. Aelin just nodded. "First, let's get some food," she said. "And maybe a few weapons." Her gaze went worriedly to Kasper, and he knew what she was thinking—that he'd never held a sword in his life, had never been allowed near a dagger.

"No time to learn like the present," Kasper said, affecting cheeriness.

The city set him on-edge. Sollemere was larger than the port, but it had been a ghost town. This place was teeming with life and vibrance, loud and smelly and gritty. Kasper felt self-conscious and grimy in his travel-worn clothes.

The three of them walked down the street together. The sunlight caught the rays of his hair, sparkling and glimmering. To his right, a group of girls giggled and pointed at him, waving. He waved back, and one of them dissolved into a fit, clutching her friend's arm.

Kasper glanced at his mother, and he saw her roll her eyes.

He thought about Syeira—what Raiden had said. Princess of Adarlan and the Crochan Kingdom, he'd said. Daughter of Dorian and Manon.

Sweetheart of Raiden.

 _Why?_ Why couldn't anything in Kasper's life be moderately simple or uncomplicated?

The wind shifted, bringing with it the aroma of bread floating down from a bakery on the corner. It had frosted windows, and a sign that read _SWEETS & TREATS. _Not very original, he supposed, but his stomach grumbled all the same.

And then he caught it—his Fae nose pricked. The other scent.

Like dried wildflowers pressed in-between the pages, the last flowers of the season wilting. Like pressed, aged beauty. Undefinable and rare and _familiar._

Lorcan's spine went ramrod straight, and Aelin froze.

" _Leta,"_ she whispered.

And then she was running.

Lorcan sprinted after her, and without even thinking, Kasper bolted, a blur as he hurtled down the street. His sister—Leta. The girl he'd thought was dead for almost his entire life; the shadow that had lurked behind him, the unspoken other half that he'd thought was gone.

The power he'd felt those weeks ago, shooting out over the terrain.

 _Leta._

—

 **AELIN**

She looked like Rowan—so much that it physically _hurt_ to look at her. She had his hair, and his mouth, and his nose—his sloping cheekbones, his long lashes. She was too thin, almost as thin as Aelin was, in a tunic and a pair of coarse leather boots.

But she had Aelin's eyes. _She had Aelin's eyes._

And her scent—wilted flowers and dried sprigs of herbs—was woven, braided, with Vaughan's. He was _all over her._

"You lying, traitorous _bastard_ ," she spat at Vaughan.

Leta's eyes widened, and she took a step backward— _toward_ the lying, traitorous bastard in question. "Vaughan?" she said. "Who—who is this?"

"Leta," Vaughan said, exhaling. "Meet Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen." His mouth quirked to the side sardonically. "Although I think there may be a Whitethorn thrown in there somewhere."

Aelin started forward. "You _jackass,"_ she hissed.

"Aelin," Lorcan said. "It's fine. He doesn't serve Maeve anymore."

"Oh, doesn't he?" she said, smiling. There was nothing humorous in her expression.

Leta's head snapped up. "Vaughan?"

His face was made of stone. It didn't budge. "I didn't harm your daughter, Aelin," he said.

"Bull _shit_ ," she snarled, stalking forward. "You're _all over her._ "

"Vaughan?" Lorcan said. His eyes flashed. "You aren't working for Maeve, are you?"

Vaughan set his jaw. "I got orders from her," he said. "I had to obey. I was never going to hurt Leta. You have to believe me. I was just told to go with her—to infiltrate Rowan's court. To report back to her."

Leta sucked in a sharp breath, and the look on her face—

Aelin knew that look. She knew it, because she'd had that expression on her face before. That was how she'd looked when she'd raked her nails down Chaol's cheek.

But Leta didn't do that. She didn't launch into violence.

Her face was the shade of double-burnt ashes, but all she did was turn away.

Vaughan closed his eyes. "Aelin, before you make assumptions—"

But it was too late. Aelin withdrew her hand and backhanded him across the face. The _crack_ echoed down the alleyway.

"I had a blood oath," Vaughan said. "I was powerless. Please, you have to believe me—"

A red welt stood out lividly on his cheek. Aelin decided it wasn't enough.

She kicked him in the side with the heel of her boot and hit him twice, in rapid succession, once with the heel of her hand to his sternum, once on his other cheek.

He spat blood onto the ground, and she kicked him in the stomach so hard that he flew back into a wall.

He didn't make a move against her—to protect himself, though she supposed he could have.

"Mom," Kasper said, grabbing her elbow. " _Mom."_

She spat on Vaughan. "You know what?" she said, smiling mercilessly. "I'm going to save you, Vaughan. I'm going to bring you home to my husband—my _mate_ —and let him decide what to do with you when he sees his daughter for the first time, smells you _all over her,_ and realizes that you broke her heart."

He paled, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Leta, who was staring at the ground, holding her arms to her chest as if she were in physical pain.

" _Leta,"_ he said hoarsely. " _Please—"_

This time, it was Kasper that slammed his fist into Vaughan's stomach. "You know," Kasper said with a pleasant tone that sent a chill down Aelin's spine, "I always liked you. More than most, anyway. You only saw me once, while we still lived in Doranelle, before Maeve posted you as a spy in Varese. You brought me tangerines and fresh bread. It was the only time I'd eaten bread that wasn't burnt." He punched Vaughan again, this time in the face, with a dull _crack_ of bone. His technique was perfect, Aelin thought, as if it came naturally.

Of course it did. He was the son of Rowan Whitethorn and Aelin Galathynius.

"But you never," Kasper said savagely, " _never_ , not once, thought to help me. You could've gotten Mom and I out. But you _didn't._ And every time I look at the scars on my back, I _will remember._ "

Leta inhaled sharply.

Aelin stared at her son.

He looked… He looked like she did. Like she had.

"I will never forget," Kasper said, "the wrongs you have dealt me. And I will never forgive the wrongs you dealt my sister."

The four of them stood there for a long time in silence. Vaughan's head sagged, and his breaths came in short, uneven gasps.

It was, of all people, Lorcan that spoke.

"It's time to go," he said. "Come on. It's time to go."

—

 **VAUGHAN**

Vaughan sat on the floor of the galley, his head in his hands.

The past few hours had gone in a blur—Lorcan's hand on the back of his neck as he marshaled him down to the docks, footsteps pounding in loaded, heavy silence. They'd searched Vaughan's bags and found enough money to pay for a boat, a supply of food, and a few weapons—a sword and a few daggers for Aelin, another sword for Kasper.

Leta hadn't said a word. She hadn't spoken when Aelin had put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, though she'd shrunk away from her mother's touch. She hadn't looked confused, or asked questions.

She'd just been… quiet. Willing. Almost servile.

It made Vaughan's mouth taste like ash.

They'd chained him up in the galley, wrapped him in iron fisticuffs and dangled him from a pole. He could see the ocean moving through the porthole window near the top of the wall, a sluice of sifting water made ebony by the night sky. A tallow candle on the counter sputtered weakly.

Aelin had taken Leta aside, presumably to explain, to tell her the tale her daughter had never known. Leta probably hated him by now, and rightfully so.

Vaughan deserved to be hated.

 _It was a blood oath. I had no choice._

He hated Maeve. He'd never wanted to serve her, had only joined her cadre for the thrill of the fight, for the taste of blood and spoils in his mouth, because he'd still been broken by Minya and the city of his birth. He'd regretted it in the days that had followed, regretted it so much that he'd _ached._

But it didn't matter, and never would. He'd dug his own grave.

Footsteps sounded outside the door, and Vaughan wondered who it was. Kasper, perhaps, back to land a few more punches? The last time Vaughan had seen Kasper, the boy had been around five, bright-haired and green-eyed, too somber and sad for a child.

Vaughan hadn't been able to free him; Maeve had commanded him otherwise. She'd stationed him far away, where he couldn't do anything, where he'd be of no use to them. But he'd given the boy a few pieces of fruit, a pastry or two. He'd done what he could, even though it hadn't been enough.

Lorcan had railed him, too. He'd been _furious,_ and Vaughan's ribs still ached from the beating.

He deserved it—all of the blows he'd gotten and more.

The hunched, splintery door creaked open, and it wasn't Kasper, or Lorcan, or even Aelin that stood there.

It was Leta.

His breath caught.

She seemed wan. Her hair was down, curling like liquid antimony around her shoulders, and her lips were colorless. Her _face_ seemed bloodless, her pallor chalky and drained.

She took a good, long look at him. He couldn't read her face.

"Leta," he croaked.

She walked, slowly, over to the counter and picked up a rag. She dipped it into the wooden bucket of clean water in the corner and wrung it, water droplets falling and splashing.

She took the wet washcloth and walked over to where he sat, hunkered in the corner.

Leta brushed the rag, gently, over the cut in his cheek, over the dried and flaking blood.

" _Leta,"_ he said again, and _hated_ how wretched he sounded, how pathetic.

"Don't," she said, her lips barely moving, "talk."

Oh. _Oh._

"You're a disaster," she said, mopping the blood from his brow.

"I'm sorry."

"You deserved it."

He swallowed. "I know."

She turned away from him. Her posture was so tense that her shoulder blades stuck out from her shirt. He watched her hair curl over her shoulder, silver strands tumbling free and loose.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she said. Her voice was quiet but razor-sharp, and Vaughan was reminded for the hundredth time that this was Aelin's daughter, Rowan's daughter, that this was _Leta,_ and to underestimate her would be the last mistake he ever made.

"I barely got you to come with me when I made an honest deal," he said tiredly. "I'm bound to Maeve, Leta. I made a blood oath to her. She commanded me to find you and spy on you, since she couldn't take you by force. I had to do it."

She let out a shuddering breath. "I _trusted_ you," she said viciously, and spun to face him. Her eyes were glittering with unshed tears. "Not at first—who would? But later, I _trusted_ you, and you _knew it._ If you'd just told me—just _offered_ —"

"You didn't believe me when I told you where you came from," Vaughan said. "That wasn't going to change. I'd bet anything it didn't change until today and you saw Aelin standing like a queen with your gods-damned eyes."

"Don't," she said in a quavering tone. " _Don't_ put this on me. Don't turn this around to make it my fault."

"I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," she breathed. "Enough with the lies, Vaughan. Enough with the _fucking lies._ I'm sick and tired of it. I'm sick and tired of being slammed in the stomach again and again with new reasons not to trust and not to love and not to _live._ " Her lip was wobbling, but her words weren't. They were steady and even and cutting _._ "You kissed me. You kissed me, and held me, and you made me trust you and even—" She broke off abruptly, putting a hand to her forehead.

"That wasn't a lie," Vaughan said hoarsely. "It wasn't. Leta, _that part wasn't a lie._ Please, _please_ believe me."

She didn't say anything, and every second of silence made something bleed just below Vaughan's ribcage.

" _Leta, please."_

She broke. Her hand dropped. Her features had gone carefully, exquisitely blank, and the set of her mouth and shoulders was _so like Rowan_ that for a moment Vaughan was struck with the force of it.

"I won't let Aelin lock you up in a dungeon," she said. "You got me through the mountains safely, and I owe you a debt for that, regardless of your ulterior motives."

"Wait," he croaked.

"So," she said, enunciating each word carefully, "here is what is going to happen. You will stay here for the rest of the trip to Suria. You will not make noise. You will not make trouble. Lorcan will tend to you."

" _Leta—"_

" _Stop saying my fucking name,"_ she snarled, and he flinched. The floor of the cabin slicked with horrible, vicious silver fire. It flashed briefly, a single flicker, but it left behind a sheet of ice.

Vaughan's teeth chattered.

"Once we get to Suria," Leta said, eyes sparking, "I'll find some way for you to leave. I'll put you on a gods-damned boat back to Wendlyn or _Al Madina min Safarat Iindhar._ " She stumbled pathetically over the words, and he jerked at the sound of his language spoken by someone else—by _her._ "I don't really give a fuck. But you won't rot away in the dungeon." She smiled ruthlessly, and it was there, along the blade of her smirk, that Vaughan saw her at last.

Aelin. Leta had her mother in her after all.

"Aelin told me," Leta said softly, but the harshness remained in her eyes, bleak and empty and cold. "Not everything, but certainly enough. And I want you to know that I know that the kindness that I'm affording you is more than you have shown my family—or me."

He went white.

"Your mother," he said, grappling for something, anything to say. "She'll never allow it. I'm blood-bound to follow you, Leta—"

"You did spy on me," she said calmly. "You did follow me to Terrasen. There was nothing in Maeve's instructions about when you needed to stop, was there?"

He didn't answer.

"Maeve fled," Leta said, pivoting on her heel and slapping the rag down on the counter with an audible _thwack_ as she stalked toward the door. "Your queen is _gone._ And haven't you heard?" She paused on the frame, her hand gripping the wood tightly enough to make it splinter. "I'm a princess, _love._ I can do whatever the fuck I want."

She strode from the room, sending a burst of wind to close the door, slamming it with enough force to rattle the stars.

—

 **LETA**

She didn't know what or who to believe. She didn't know if it was smart to believe Aelin or not. She didn't know if she should trust Lorcan anymore—if she should have bothered at all with Vaughan.

She didn't particularly care, not anymore. She'd let the current take her where it would. She was a piece of driftwood now.

She hauled herself up the flight of splintery wooden stairs, the railing slipping beneath her palm. She felt her silver fire circling low in her belly, writhing like a snake.

She needed _release._

The deck of the small ship was empty and deserted, a maze of creaky planks and crooked masts. The boy with golden hair and the eyes like emerald jewels stood at the prow, his hands outstretched, commanding the wind to push them across the ocean.

The sea was nothing like she'd expected. Its water was not gleaming aquamarine but a reserved, remote gray, navy-blue and flecked with flotsam bobbing on the waves. It smelled of brine and rotting salt, and there was no creature in sight, nothing but the occasional darting fish streaming through the water.

She didn't think. She followed her instincts: she went to the boy.

He was her twin, if these people were to be believed. And some part of Leta did believe it, because she felt something inside her chest click, a missing piece set into place. She felt her magic rise up in answer to his, beckoning and calling.

He was warmth and light. She was frost and shadows.

She came up beside him. He dropped his arms, flicking his gaze to her inquisitively. He must've seen her go down to visit Vaughan, but he didn't ask questions. He simply looked at her, the wind still carrying them, still shoving, _yanking._

She rose up her own hands, palms outstretched, and reached not for the wind but for the water.

She knew this. She feared it, and for once, she welcomed it.

The sea swelled in response, and it jackhammered the boat forward. Her twin stumbled, clutching the railing, and for a moment his winds dropped as he stared at her, his eyes wide.

"You're not the only one with tricks," she said.

And it was then that Leta knew with certainty that he was her twin, that he was her brother, because he _grinned,_ raised up his hands, and called for the winds, stronger this time.

She closed her eyes, and on instinct reached for his hand. His fingers laced with hers, and she felt it again, that _click._

Their magics wove together, and she felt a _pulse,_ a hammering of her heart, and she opened her mouth in childlike wonder. Her eyes remained closed, and she felt, somehow, that his were as well.

"Gods," Kasper whispered.

She squeezed his hand, and she heard a _flare,_ a whoosh, as if they were going up in flame.

She tipped back her head and laughed as they soared, the wind and the water crowing in dissonant harmony.

—

 **LORCAN**

Lorcan was jerked from his sleep by a sudden jar of the ship's movement, as if it were speeding up impossibly fast, and his eyes widened.

He stumbled out of bed, his first thought that Kasper was burning out, that Aelin would have his head, that _Rowan would kill him_ —

He sprinted out of his room, out of the narrow cot wedged in the corner of the undercroft cabin, and vaulted up the stairs. He met Aelin on the way, and he could tell by her wild-eyed look that she hadn't been sleeping, but she'd felt it too.

They reached the deck, but as soon as they stepped onto the top floor of the ship, they froze.

Kasper and Leta were standing at the foot of the ship, hand-in-hand. And they were _glowing._

They vibrated with light, a mixture of carmine and gold and mercury and quicksilver, reds and blues and grays, colds and hots, crackling with electricity and snow. The wind was shoving them forward so hard that Lorcan couldn't hear himself think, and around them was the _water_ —

He'd gotten a glimpse of her power in Wendlyn, but he'd never seen anything like this.

He turned around, dread forming in the pit of his stomach, and saw a tidal wave pushing them forward. It was fifty feet tall or more, and she maintained it as if it were nothing, as if it were easy as breathing.

"Oh, my gods," Aelin breathed, parchment-white. "They're _carranam._ "

Lorcan stopped short.

Kasper had been harnessing the winds for days now and he hadn't found his bottom. Leta, clearly, was about the same. Power like that—power near infinite—was terrifying enough on its own.

They could _draw on the strength of each other._

It was compounded.

They could turn the world to ash.

"What," Lorcan snarled, whirling on Aelin, "have you _done_?"

But she didn't listen to him. Instead, she walked across the deck— _towards_ her children. Not away from them.

They almost didn't seem to see her as she looked at them, tears spilling down her cheeks. They almost didn't seem to notice as she ignored Lorcan's warning shout and put her hands over the clasped grip of her children.

She didn't burn.

Instead, the fire flew _brighter_ , as if she were _joining_ their magic, fusing it together.

"Holy burning hell," Lorcan whispered.

 _Infinite._

And it was only because of Lorcan's keen Fae hearing and his exquisite, terrible knowledge of heartbreak that he heard Aelin whisper, " _I'm coming, Rowan. We're all coming."_

—

 **TORAIGH**

Toraigh Aigean had been fishing since he was a boy, when his father first took him out on the water.

Toraigh had idolized his father for as long as he could remember. He was a larger-than-life figure, burly and gray-bearded, with eyes soft and warm as the tarragon butter Toraigh's ma churned in the great big wooden bucket in their kitchen. His father always smelled of whiskey and the ocean, and for as long as Toraigh could remember, there had been no sweeter scent.

"The thing about the ocean, Tor," his father had said that first day, "is that it's dangerous. It'll yank you under before you can blink, and it won't spit you out again."

Tor had been shivering, rocking back and forth on the bench in the corner of his father's ship. "W-what?" he stammered.

"The sea is dangerous," his father continued, reeling in a fishing wire. His father's fingers had been thick and stubby, but when paired with a wire or a rod they were nimble and quick as a master pianist's. "All beautiful things are. And it's their beauty that makes it worth it. Remember that, Tor."

Toraigh adjusted the sail now, thirty-some years later. It was just before dawn, when the sky was that in-between shade, not quite blue but not quite black, but rather something undefinable and murky. The harbors of Suria were beginning to clog with ice floes, and soon the fishing season would be over, and Toraigh would have to parcel his coins until spring.

His father had died, Tor reflected, staring out over the mists cloaking the still ocean. It was unusually quiet and frozen this morning, almost contemplative. His father had had a touch of wind magic, something passed down from a Fae ancestor generations back. He'd been burned for it.

Tor still remembered those days—the pyres they set up along the roads of Terrasen. They'd burned his mother, too, and his sister.

Tor had been lucky. He'd been sent out to fetch water from the well on the corner when the Adarlanian king's guards came, and he'd had enough sense to cower until the brutes were gone. He'd watched them drag his sister kicking and screaming out of their shabby cabin—he'd watched them drag his parents' dead bodies out the back door.

He was a coward, Tor thought, closing his hand into a fist. Things were better now. There was a Fae king on the throne, and the streets had been abuzz the past few days with pulses of magic from the east.

But Toraigh never paid much mind to superstition. Rumors and illusions had gotten his family killed.

Tor hunched over the railing, watching the cold waters of Suria brush up against his boat. He was a few miles from the docks, and he needed desperately to pull in a net. He couldn't afford to go another winter a debtor—he had no more debts left to call in or beg.

The boat wrenched suddenly, and Tor swore, stumbling backwards and closing his hands over the rail. A sharp series of waves shoved his trawler back a step or two, and a brutal breeze sliced through the harbor—what his ma would've called a killing wind, Tor thought.

He swore under his breath, getting to his feet and shading his eyes. Through the fog wrapping the harbor like the mourning shroud of a brand-new widow, he saw it.

On the horizon, a ship. Old and worn, like Tor's own boat, if a bit larger, made for voyages _across_ the ocean, not just abutting its shore.

It was moving impossibly fast, Tor thought. He'd never seen a ship move like it in all his life, not since the bloody king himself came in on his magicked ship from Morath over ten years ago.

He jolted. _Magicked._

He knew, immediately, that the word fit. The waves roared and trembled, streamlined as if commanded by some human force. The wind, too—it was pushed in a singular direction. The direction the boat was heading.

"What the—" Tor muttered.

The ship parted the veil of mist rising off the freezing-cold waters of Suria, and he got a better look at it. There were people standing on the top deck, he noticed, and counted five figures through his squint.

It was moving so bloody _fast._ How could it _do_ that?

The ship slowed, almost imperceptibly, and Toraigh swallowed as he realized it was coming straight for him.

It wasn't much taller than his own boat, and in worse shape, fairly beaten and battered. The ship finally came to a halt about fifteen feet away from Toraigh's trawler, and the water and wind stopped their odd jerks and twitches.

Tor had been right, he saw. There were five people on the deck, and the sight of them made his blood run cold.

To the left stood a towering, heavily muscled man, nearly seven feet tall with a hatchet strapped to his back. He seemed faintly feral, with a gleam in his obsidian eyes that sent a shiver down Tor's spine. At the seven-foot-tall man's feet was another man, this one with a chiseled jaw and skin like nutmeg, curling brown locks and dark eyes. He was manacled, chained to the ground. His head was bowed, and his shoulders were sunken.

And at the front of the ship…

Two people stood side-by-side, their hands clasped, both about fifteen or sixteen. The boy had a shock of golden curls and a wicked smile, and the girl was…

Tor couldn't help running his eyes up and down the form of the girl. She was stunning, almost ethereal in an odd, disconcerting way, with hair that spilled down her back in a bramble of steel.

But it was the woman at the front that caught his eye.

She, like the girl and boy, was striking, with hair like sunlight and blue eyes that glittered with defiance. A sword dangled from her fingertips, and her lithe, dangerous build and the terrifying curve to her mouth spoke volumes.

They were all Fae. Every single gods-damned one of them. And they radiated power like nothing Toraigh had ever felt.

"My name is Aelin Galathynius," the woman at the front said, sheathing her sword. Her words carried over the water, as if brushing up lovingly against the soil of Terrasen. "And I have come home."

—

 **A/N: I know, I suck for the cliffhanger. And also about the Vaughan thing. And, well, yeah, pretty much everything else. That just about sums it up, doesn't it?**

 **(Note: Vaughan's language is based loosely off of an Arabic translation converted into the English alphabet, in case anyone was interested. Thank you, Google Translate. XD)**

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	15. Chapter 14

**A/N: I'm back, FINALLY. With the chapter that literally almost killed me. I think I knew where this chapter had to end, but I didn't, like, realize how much more I had to write before I could get to the ending. I got to page 20, and I was like, goddammit, this is going to take at least another 20 pages to finish. And then it took 40. (Twenty eight thousand words. It LITERALLY KILLED ME.) So this is where I tell you up front that I'm officially done with the long-ass, sixty-three page chapters; it'll be shorter, more frequent chapters from now on. THERE WAS MUCH REJOICING.**

 **ANYWAY, thank you so much to all the reviewers that have stuck with me so far through this story! You guys are the only reason that it's gotten this far. :) This is the chapter you've all been waiting for... the reunion. (I only hope I did it justice.)**

 **RECAP: Fenrys and Raiden have decided to track Maeve down after she escaped during the massacre at Sollemere. Syeira is heartbroken, because she just found out that Raiden is missing. Aelin, Kasper, and Lorcan met up with Leta and Vaughan, and it was revealed that Vaughan was a traitorous little prick and was still blood-sworn to Maeve. (He'd been spying on Leta on her orders.) He's now chained up, and Aelin has the intention of taking him with her to Orynth so that Rowan can punish him. (Bc Aelin's really freaking evil like that.) Orion recently decided to take a jaunt to Orynth ahead of time, much to his parents' lament, and basically everyone at Orynth is just really, really freaking done.**

 **Huzzah!**

 **I hope everyone enjoys! Review and let me know what you think ;)**

* * *

CHAPTER 14

 **LETA**

Leta had never seen a city before, and this one took her breath away.

Her first glimpse of Terrasen was of a slate-gray sea peppered with ice floes that bobbed like clouds in an empty sky. Mist shrouded the water, cloaked and curtained, so thick that she felt as if she could extend her hand and grasp fistfuls of the fog and it would pool in the palm of her hand like cotton.

She stood at the head of the fisherman's trawler, watching the shore grow closer. She could make out the shadow of marble cliffs on the horizon, jagged and craggy like the mountain slopes she knew so well. Pine trees jutted from the stone, roots somehow curving off the rock, suspended in midair.

Beside her, Kasper watched with an equally rapt expression. Aelin was pale, golden tresses whipping against her cheeks.

"So," the fisherman said awkwardly. He was an awkward man, Leta thought, though she had liked him upon first glimpsing him. He had an honest, bearded face, with sad eyes that faked nothing. "You've been away quite a while, then."

"I believe so," said Aelin dryly.

The fisherman twisted the wheel, hands resting lightly on the battered wood. "I s'ppose you're all heading to the capitol, then?" Aelin nodded, and he continued, "Well, I don't know much about this all business, but if you wanted a proper envoy and the like, you'd be best off going to the Allsbrook House in the West End."

"They're still monopolizing Suria, then?" Aelin said, her lips twitching.

The fisherman scratched his beard. "Reckon so. Don't much mind for the most part—Lord Ren's a good sort, and old Murtaugh never hurt a fly."

None of them answered. They had stopped paying attention to the fisherman in the middle of his sentence: the skyline of Suria had come into view.

 _Beautiful._ Leta had been stunned by the port town, but that was nothing— _nothing_ —compared to this. Piers stretched on for miles, the paved shorefront lined with edifices painted bright yellows, blues, and reds, cheery and colorful against the stark, ashy landscape. Seagulls flocked overhead, squirming crabs clasped in their orange beaks, and men and women gutted fish with gusto near the water, filleting with flashing knives with practiced expertise.

The city stretched on for miles, buildings taller than Leta had ever seen stretching up into the sky. It was a never-ending mosaic of color and life and brine, and her heart stopped in her chest.

It was silly. She had never been to this country before, had never spared it so much as a second glance on one of her stupid maps. But standing here now, her lips parted…

Aelin's eyes glistened with tears, and Kasper slipped his fingers through Leta's. She hadn't known him for more than a few days, but it felt easy; right. Natural.

"Terrasen," Aelin breathed.

The fisherman looked sideways at her, and offered her a wary smile. "Welcome home, Majesty," he said, and through the thick brogue of his accent, the full impact of his words hit Leta home for the first time.

 _Majesty._

This was her home.

And she was its heir.

—

 **ROWAN**

Rowan sat in a chair in her room, twisting the ring around his finger and staring out the window.

After so many months of waiting, winter had come, descended upon her country in a deluge of snow and ice. The windowpanes were frosted, and the servants had risen early that morning to light the fireplaces, striking flint and tinder with trembling, cold-stiffened fingers. They knew better than to light the fireplace in her room—Rowan preferred the cold to the lick of flame. It reminded him too much of wildfire.

He'd met her in the wintertime. The memories of her were the worst in this season. Sometimes he'd wake after half a night's worth of fitful sleep and think that she was there, lying next to him, only inches away from him in his bed at Mistward.

He'd wake with her voice still ringing, her scent wafting up from the pillows. And then he'd remember, slowly, that he no longer slept in the bed because he could not bear to without her in it, and he couldn't smell her, not really, not anymore.

A book sat before him, discarded on the table. He hadn't been in the mood anyway. He sat and watched the snow fall.

A knock sounded on his door.

"Come in," said Rowan tiredly. He was always tired these days.

The door of his sitting room eased open, and a figure appeared in the threshold.

It was, of all people, Syeira Crochan-Havilliard.

Rowan put his head in his hands. He just didn't have the energy for this.

"Do you have something important to say?" he said, lifting his bloodshot eyes. She was a rather pathetic sight, almost as wretched as Rowan himself. "Or something you _need_?"

She took a step back. She hadn't taken the news of the disappearance of Chaol's son well; Rowan knew that. He should be kinder to her, but right then…

She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "I just came to say that I haven't had any more visions in a few weeks."

"Good," said Rowan acerbically. "We'll take that as a sign of thanks. You're not a madwoman." He raised a mock glass to her. "Huzzah, huzzah. You haven't inherited the more psychotic tendencies of your grandmother."

She flinched, and regret flickered in his stomach. "I also…" She swallowed. "I came to say I'm sorry."

He flicked his brows up. "For what?"

"For everything," she said, fingering the loose thread on the hem of her sleeve. That was new. Rowan had known Syeira since she was a baby, and even as a child, she had been precocious, confident and headstrong, not unsure. "But mostly…" The thread came free, and it fluttered to the ground. "Mostly for saying what I did about… about your wife. Your mate."

Rowan's chest compressed. He didn't say anything.

A tear slipped down one cheek, and she wiped it away hastily. "I know it's not the same," she said. "What I feel for Rai and what you feel for… for your wife."

"No," Rowan said coldly. "No, it's not."

"But I understand it," she said. "Just a little now. And I'm—I'm _sorry._ " Her voice broke, breath snagging. "I can't… Rai was all... He is a _piece of me._ And I don't know where… What am I supposed to _do_?" Another tear trickled down her cheek, and she smudged it away.

Rowan exhaled. "Get over here."

Syeira glanced up, momentarily off-guard. "What?"

"I said, get over here," he repeated irritatedly.

She edged her way over the carpet, making her way through the sitting room. She looked almost startlingly like Dorian. When she was younger, Rowan had thought she'd have more of Manon, but now he wasn't so sure—inside and out.

"It's the things you never knew that you'd miss that hit you the most," Rowan said. "And it will come to you not in the middle of the night, but in the middle of the day, because it's then that something unexpected reminds you of them—the way that they laugh, the particular twist of their smile, a phrase or a habit. And it will get easier for you."

Syeira furrowed her brow. "Has it gotten easier for you?"

"No," Rowan replied. "But that's because she's my mate." He leveled his gaze at her. "I don't know if Raiden's alive," he said. "I can't promise you that he's somewhere out there. He's a precious commodity, Syeira, and from what I've heard, he's poorly trained and ill-equipped for the kind of people that'd love to get their hands on him."

Her chest hitched.

"But," he said, "that being said, don't give up hope."

"I just wish I _knew_ ," said Syeira. "Even if he was dead, it would be better than this _not knowing._ "

"Be careful what you wish for," Rowan warned. He gazed out the window. "Trust me. I know."

Syeira shoved a piece of hair out of her eyes. "Do you still wait for her?" she asked quietly. "For your mate?"

"Every day," Rowan answered, eyes drifting back to the small, scared girl standing in the middle of his sitting room. " _Every day_. That's what you do for the person that you love—you never stop looking. And you never give up hope. The only reason I'm still here is for _her_. This is her country, and I will not abandon it."

Syeira looked with him out the window. The snow fell thickly now, obscuring the skyline in a haze of white sleet.

He had watched that drive so many times, half-expecting her to come sauntering up it, hands tucked in her pockets.

The worst part, worse than any torture, was that Rowan had begun to forget her face. He saw pieces of her in Aedion, but he had forgotten the precise sound of her laugh; the way that she smiled.

His memories of her had faded, dulled and worn with time and pain.

"I miss him," she said softly.

"I miss her," he replied raspily. "But you'll get your answers, Syeira. Depend on it. Whether he lives or dies, you'll get an answer." He met her eyes. "Our day of answers will be a day of reckoning. Depend on that, too."

—

 **LETA**

They pulled up to a rickety, moldy dock, almost crumbling away right before their eyes. The boat eked to a stop, drifting faintly over the brackish waves.

Aelin reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of Vaughan's gold. "Here," she said, handing it to the fisherman. "Thank you."

The fisherman took the money with wide eyes. Leta's heart tugged as she realized he must've been poor—his clothes were holey, the soles of his shoes flapping. She glanced at Vaughan, but his expression was unreadable.

"You don't have to give me this," the fisherman said. "We all know what you did in the war—what happened—"

"Take it anyway," Aelin said firmly. "I insist."

The fisherman ducked his head. "Thank you," he said, tugging on the hem of his cap in gratitude.

Aelin dismounted the boat, and the rest of them followed suit, trudging after her down the dock. Posts studded the walkway, coated with orange barnacles and green-gray algae, and clods of silver darted through the water—clouds of minnows, Leta realized, or something close to it.

They must've landed on the impoverished end of the city. Leta had a bitter taste in her mouth as she surveyed her surroundings. The buildings here had cracked and peeling paint, and the stalls were decrepit, creaking with the brunt of the winter wind. A little boy huddled on a front stoop, clutching his knees to his chest and using a crumpled newspaper in a mockery of a blanket.

This was where Vaughan had grown up, or a place similar. Gray and falling apart at the seams.

She glanced over at him. He walked a few paces away from her; like Leta, he was at the back of the group.

Fueled by impulse, she reached out and squeezed his hand. His head whipped up, and he looked at her, startled, but she just let go and gave him a sad, small smile.

His throat bobbed.

Aelin took a sharp left into, of all things, an alleyway. Leta hurried after her, averting her eyes. The last thing she needed to worry about was Vaughan right then.

"Alright," Aelin said as the rest of them filed into the dank, narrow alley. It stank of cat piss and rotting fish, and Leta wrinkled her nose. "Time to make a plan."

Lorcan's brows rose. "Don't we have one? Head off to the Allsbrooks, commission them for an envoy?"

Aelin examined her fingernails. "Theoretically we _could_ ," she said. "But that would be awfully boring, don't you think?"

Lorcan groaned. "Burning hell, Aelin, what—"

"Before we do anything," Leta interrupted, "we need to let Vaughan go."

They all turned to stare at her in unison. Vaughan included.

"Leta—" Vaughan began, but Aelin beat him to it.

"Absolutely not," she said.

"But—"

"Not a chance in hell," said Aelin, eyes sparking. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I owe him a debt," Leta said, teeth clenched. "He got me through the mountains alive. I can't just take him prisoner."

"Firstly," Aelin said, "you don't owe _him_ anything. Secondly, you're not taking him prisoner; I am."

"Shouldn't I get some say in this?"

"Not in this, no," Aelin said. "Leta, if I let him go, he'll just come back and find some way to spy on us again. He's blood-bound to do it."

"He won't," Leta said. "There were no extreme specifications on the order—"

Aelin looked as if she'd very much like to smack her head against the wall. "You have no idea how these things work," she snapped. "I can't let him go. He'd be a liability."

Leta choked out a laugh. "Are you kidding me? _I'm_ a liability. _You're_ a liability. So are Kasper and Lorcan, for that matter. We're _all_ liabilities."

"He's different," Aelin said through gritted teeth.

"I don't care," Leta said. "I want him gone. He got me through those mountains, and that counts for something."

Aelin rolled her eyes and folded her arms. "I've seen a little of what you can do, Leta. You would've gotten out of those mountains with or without him."

"Physically, maybe," Leta said. "But not mentally. I would be dead right now if it weren't for him."

"That's not even remotely true," Aelin said.

Vaughan watched them both with wide eyes. He'd gone very pale. "Look—" he started, but both Aelin and Leta whipped their heads to him and snarled in unison, " _Shut up."_

Kasper took a step back, and Lorcan muttered an oath.

"It's not happening," Aelin said. "End of discussion."

"He's already been punished," Leta argued. "There's retribution and then there's cruelty, and you've crossed over into the latter."

"Leta, Aelin's right," Vaughan said.

Both of them turned slowly to look at him. "What was that?" Aelin said.

He was white but resolute. "If you let me go," he said, "I'll just come back."

For a moment, there was only the sound of the whistling wind, shrieking as it hurtled down the narrow alleyway.

Aelin put her hands up. "What more do you want, Leta? He _admits it_!"

Leta glowered at him. "Fine," she said finally, her words gone remote and cold. "Fine. You want to ruin your own gods-damned life, Vaughan, don't let me stand in the way. You're quite capable of self-destruction all on your own, and honestly, I don't give a damn."

He paled.

"Go on with your plan, Aelin," Leta said, and met her mother's eyes this time. "Plot and scheme and do whatever the hell queens are born to do. But I'm going to remember this, and I'm not going to forgive you for it."

This time, it was Aelin's turn to whiten. " _Leta—"_ she started.

"Don't," Leta said, pivoting on her heel. She went over beside Kasper, who said nothing. She could feel the warmth coming off of him in steady, reassuring waves, could feel his magic crackle in response to hers. He was comforting, she had to admit. Something about him set her at ease, made something in her chest loosen. "I really don't want to hear it."

Aelin wrapped her arms around her chest. "I'm sorry," she said anyway. "But it's for the best. You have to see that. _It's for the best._ "

Leta didn't bother to reply.

Lorcan sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Go on, Aelin," he said. "Tell us your plan. The fire-breathing bitch queen has to make her return sometime."

—

 **KASPER**

The five of them crowded around a table in a dank, dark inn, poring over maps.

Lorcan had gone out to buy them each brown, nondescript cloaks, and Kasper, Leta, and his mother kept the hoods pinned firmly over their heads. They were too recognizable, though no one spared Lorcan or Vaughan a second glance.

"Here," Lorcan said, tapping the map. "If we head south, we can probably reach the river in six days or so if we hurry. From there, we can get another boat, and Kasper and Leta can probably get us to the capital in another day. That puts us in Orynth in a week."

The words settled like stones on Kasper's chest. _A week._ A week until he saw his father, the figure that had been looming over him in whispered stories for his entire life, a larger-than-life shadow he had yet to put a face to.

Lorcan and Aelin said that Leta looked like Rowan. Kasper studied her now. She had hints of Aelin in her bone structure, and Ashryver eyes, but most of her features were foreign: the coil of silvery hair that hung in a glittering braid of antimony, the long nose. Her features had gone hard and brittle since her argument with Aelin.

Kasper suspected that Aelin and Vaughan were taking it worse. Aelin had a haggard, haunted look about her, and she continuously shot looks at Leta. Meanwhile, Vaughan…

They'd bound his hands again in shackles of iron, and he hadn't protested. He hadn't even raised his head until Leta had lowered her carefully-placed words on him like a slap.

That was a trait she'd inherited from Kasper's mother, the sharp tongue. Kasper wondered distantly if it might've been a trait of their father's, too.

Aelin's breath snagged. "A week," she repeated.

Lorcan nodded. "If we rest here tonight," he said, rolling up the map neatly into a slender tube, "I can get up early tomorrow morning and lift some provisions from the kitchens. We have enough of Vaughan's money to pay for three horses—one for Kasper and Leta, one for you, and one for me."

Leta's head snapped up, a faintly panicked expression on her face. "I've never ridden a horse," she said.

"It's easy," said Lorcan, waving a hand.

Aelin snorted. "How the hell would you know? It's been what, five centuries since you learned to ride one?"

"Semantics," Lorcan said. "And watch your tongue, or we'll start attracting attention."

"I'd rather fly," Leta said. "If I could."

Save for Vaughan, they all shifted and gave her a measured, concerned look.

"Um," Kasper said. "Leta—"

"In my animal form," she clarified hastily. "It's a condor."

Aelin blinked, and Kasper stopped short. He didn't know what his animal form was—he'd never been given the opportunity to shift before.

"I suppose that would make more sense," Lorcan said slowly. "That way we could manage with two horses rather than one, certainly."

"Lorcan," Aelin said not-so-patiently. "How in the name of the gods is a single horse going to hold both you and Vaughan? Or you and _anyone_ , for that matter?"

Lorcan glared at her. "Fine. Three horses it is, then."

Leta opened her mouth, as if about to say something, but shut it abruptly. "Sure," she said. "Three horses it is."

Aelin traced a circle on the sticky tabletop. The guttering wall sconces darkened her profile, her gold-blue eyes glittering like fireflies in midsummer. "A week," she said raspily. "A week, and then…"

"Then," Kasper said, "we're home."

—

Later that night, Kasper laid in his bed and listened to the sound of his mother and sister sleeping.

They'd rented two rooms: one for Kasper, Leta, and his mother, and one for Vaughan and Lorcan. Kasper and Leta both had a twin bed, but Aelin slept on the floor, despite Kasper's protests.

Kasper stared up at the ceiling, his arms tucked behind his head. He missed talking to Syeira, he thought, and felt an odd pang in his chest. It was strange, and unexpected, but he did.

He thought back to what Raiden had said. The daughter of King Dorian and Queen Manon—and Raiden's own sweetheart.

Kasper snorted. That about fit with his luck, or lack thereof.

He'd gotten glimpses of her through the bond, but he shuttered them away, stacked them neatly into a corner of his mind that he ordered himself not to prod.

It didn't matter anyway, he supposed, turning around to face the wall. Syeira would be either the heir of Adarlan or the Crochan Kingdom, and both were considerably far away from Orynth. Chances were he wouldn't have to face her for years.

He yawned, and his eyes fluttered shut. _Years,_ he thought contentedly, and drifted off to sleep.

—

 **CHAOL**

"A messenger's come from the capital," Nesryn said, parting the flap of their tent and slipping inside. "Orion's fine. He got bored with the slow pace, apparently, and decided to skip ahead."

Chaol nodded. His head felt heavy these days, as if weighted down with lead. "Good," he managed. "That's—that's good."

Nesryn sat beside him on the bedroll. Inside their tent, a lantern flickered weakly, casting shadows over the wrinkled canvas. Outside, Chaol could hear the sounds of the camp—Dorian and Manon were hollering at each other, probably about Orion and just who, exactly, had been supposed to be watching him when he'd scampered off. Horses snuffled and pawed at the ground, and a ladle clanked as it beat against the side of a pot.

Chaol wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders and buried his face in her hair. She smelled like spices: cumin and cayenne and some deeper, richer scent he'd never been able to place.

Nesryn looked exhausted. She must've lost ten pounds in the past week, and she cut a skeletal, haunted figure. Chaol doubted he fared any better—Dorian had commented as much that morning.

"He'll be fine," Dorian had said, an unusual gravity tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You don't know that," Chaol had replied roughly. "We thought Aelin would be fine, too, and neither of us have seen her in sixteen years."

"She's alive," Dorian said.

"Dorian."

"Trust me," he said. "It might be another two decades before we see her again, but she's not gone. Rowan would know. Raiden's out there, Chaol. I know it."

Chaol wanted so badly to believe him, to take kind lies in place of what was likely a harder truth. But he didn't. If there was one thing his horror-riddled life had taught him, it was that reality was a bitch, and you should never—ever—take anything for granted.

He'd broken the second rule. He wouldn't break the first.

Nesryn closed her eyes and leaned against Chaol's chest. "I miss him," she whispered.

Chaol leaned his head back and imagined that somehow, through the tarp of their tent, he could see the stars. "Yeah," he said hoarsely, and clutched Nesryn closer to him, arms circling tightly around her waist. "Me, too."

He could've said so many other things—the real weights that pressed on his chest. How he desperately didn't want his last meeting with Raiden to be the last time he ever saw him, both of them angry and bitter. How he didn't want to say goodbye to his son with a rift the size of an ocean between them. How he couldn't breathe lately, because it was _his fault_. He should've made sure Raiden was trained before he sent him off to another continent with so many people that would itch to get their hands on him, should've at least told Raiden how to hold a sword, for Deanna's sake; should have told his son that he loved him before he left.

Maybe that would've made all the difference, maybe it wouldn't have made any. Chaol would never know.

Nesryn and Chaol lapsed into silence, and it wasn't for a long time afterward that Chaol realized he was crying.

—

 **DORIAN**

" _You_ were supposed to be watching him," Dorian said, jabbing a finger at his wife. "You were the one that got him that gods-damned wyvern. I _told_ you he wasn't ready, that he was thirteen and gods only know what kinds of trouble a thirteen-year-old boy will get up to with a winged pet the size of a small house—"

Manon glared at him. "It's not _my_ fault," she snapped. "Just because I got him the wyvern doesn't automatically mean that I'm responsible."

Dorian rubbed his forehead with his hands. His temples throbbed with a persistent, aching beat, and a wave of exhaustion flooded over him, weighing down his shoulders and killing his protests. "Stop. Just—stop. I don't want to fight anymore."

She watched him from the other side of the tent, still wary, her eyes amber slits. Dorian sat on his bedroll in the corner, grass crunching beneath the blankets. "He's fine," Manon said, and Dorian wondered how it was that she could read his mind so uncannily. She'd been able to do it since the first day he'd met her, more or less, and she'd done it every year of their marriage; did it now. "He's alright."

Dorian didn't move. He didn't say anything.

Manon tiptoed across the grass, the blades brushing against her bare feet, and dropped down beside Dorian. "It's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" Dorian said bitterly. "I mean, gods, Manon. Orion's running off on wyverns, Syeira's sleeping with Chaol's son and cursing out the king of Terrasen—did I show you Aedion and Lys's last letter? I might actually have to forcibly _kill her_ when we get to Orynth."

"Not if I beat you to it," Manon said grimly. "You're better off relegating the job to me. I'm far more terrifying."

Dorian huffed a laugh. "What's next? Calynn develops a raging opium addiction? Bevyn gambles away the kingdom's fortune in a game of cards?"

"Dorian," Manon said, raising one penciled eyebrow. "I think that's quite enough."

He groaned as he flopped back down on his back. She ran a hand absentmindedly through his hair, iron fingernails sliding out to scratch his scalp. He raised his eyebrows as she slid one hand further down to play with the hem of his shirt, scraping the waistband of his trousers. "Really?" he said. "Now?"

Manon smiled wickedly and slid down beside him, resting her head on his chest. "You have so little imagination," she said.

He flicked her nose, and she hissed. "I'm positive your imagination is filthy enough for the both of us."

"Oh, really," Manon deadpanned. "Please, let me remind you of a certain night some years ago on a boat, when—"

"For the record," Dorian said, eyes glittering, "I didn't hear a protest. In fact, I think it was quite the opposite."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "How you've survived this many years with me remains a mystery."

He laughed and buried his face in her neck. "Easy," he said, words muffled. "I'm _incredibly_ talented."

She grinned, and made a small sound of protest as he pulled back. Something in her eyes softened, and Dorian felt his chest squeeze. Quiet, kind displays of affection were rare from Manon, and every time she looked at him like this, he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude—for her, and for whatever fate had given her to him.

"I love you," he said. "Just so you know."

Her brows lifted. "Oh, trust me," she said. " _I know."_ He laughed as she curled closer to him, her moonshine hair spilled out over the slender curve of her back. More quietly, she added, "I love you too."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and closed his eyes. "I'm worried," he said.

"About what? Orion? Syeira? Chaol? Erawan, Maeve, Rowan?" She ticked off each name as if they were items on a shopping list.

"All of the above," he said.

Manon didn't try to placate him with false assurances that everything would be alright. She knew better. Instead, she just exhaled and lifted her head.

"I love you," she said again, pressing her body against his, legs intertwined.

A bit of the tension seeped out of his body, and he masked his concern with a flippant smirk. "Oh, trust me," he said. " _I know."_

—

 **VAUGHAN**

They were ahead of Lorcan's schedule. Vaughan had traversed this country some sixteen years ago, and he knew the signs of the land surrounding the capital. The Staghorns loomed up in the distance like a jagged coronet of stone, wrapped in snow's frosty embrace, and he could almost smell the smoke of the city if he tried hard enough.

The rock-studded river was too dangerous to traverse at night, with pockets of ice inches-thick and fallen logs that could puncture their frail boat like a needle popping a blister. They'd made camp on the banks of the river about half a mile inland, and most everyone was asleep now, tossing and turning in their bedrolls.

Vaughan hadn't been offered anything, just a patch of moss, but Leta had hurled a blanket at him almost savagely. Aelin had glared at her daughter, about to argue, but Leta had only snapped, "If he freezes to death, you won't get to toss him in a cell, remember?"

The blanket was too small for Vaughan's enormous figure—he was almost as tall as Salvaterre, though not as broad-shouldered, and the scrap of thin flannel only covered his collarbone to his mid-shin.

And yet.

Leta, Vaughan thought, staring up at the scraps of sky visible through the patchwork lace of skeletal, winter-worn branches, was the kind of person prone to small kindnesses. She didn't look at him as she passed him a covert apple, or canteen of water, or hurled a blanket at his head. She fumed, in fact; radiated waves of anger so strong that Vaughan could literally smell her fury and loathing.

But she was kind. Vaughan hadn't met many kind people in his lifetime; not in two decades' worth of sea-rat scavenging and another seven of service to Maeve. He didn't know how or where Leta had gotten it, with a life of iron nails and parents known for cruelty rather than kindness. Rowan and Aelin were the sort to sacrifice themselves, but they were not _nice_. Fundamentally good, perhaps, but not _pleasant._

Vaughan shuddered at the thought of the poor unfortunate soul that made the mistake of thinking Rowan and Aelin Galathynius were friendly.

He sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. His hands were shackled, though it would take him hardly a thought to snap the chains. He wasn't stupid, though—the second he tried to make a break for it, he'd have the wrath of a warrior queen, king, prince, and several other terrifying personages on his heels. He didn't particularly care for his odds.

He raked a hand through his hair. He'd fucked up. It was an understatement, really.

He glanced back at the campsite, at the fire flickering weakly, and found with some degree of surprise that Leta was awake too, her eyes wide open as she stared at the stars.

She'd told him once that she looked for her family there, that she searched for the mother and father that she'd never known. Now she had them—a mother and a brother too, and a father half a day's journey away.

He wondered what she was searching for now—if she still looked for the Stag of the North, unaware that it was the constellation of her home.

As if she read his mind, her eyes flicked over to him, and her face hardened. He could read the unspoken words in her eyes: _Go to sleep._

 _Likewise,_ he shot back.

Leta rose, pushing herself up from her nest of blankets. Vaughan remembered when the two of them had had nothing to sleep with at all, nothing but the hard ground beneath them, when Leta's hair had been streaked with muddy river water dredged from the underbelly of the earth.

Sick and twisted as it was, he wished it were that way still.

She stalked over to him. Her silver hair was unbound, and it gleamed, slivers of moonlight kissing her shoulders.

"What are you doing up, Vaughan?" she hissed, quietly enough that the others wouldn't hear.

"What are _you_ doing up, love?" he shot back.

She pressed her lips together and pivoted on her heel, as if content to head back to sleep, but something stopped her. She paused. "Why did you lie the other day?" she said.

"Lie?"

She swiveled back around to face him. "You said you'd just come back if I let you go," she said. "Why did you lie?"

"I didn't."

She balled her fists at her sides, anger building in her eyes, but as soon as it appeared, it vanished again, gone in a puff of smoke. "Why?" she said, sounding so small and fragile that it broke his heart.

 _Because I'll come back for you—even when you don't want me around. Even when you hate me. Because being around you when you hate me is better than not being around you at all._

 _Because what if you're mortal, and what if…_

"Because I'm blood-bound," Vaughan said. "I'd have no other choice, Leta. Your father is blood-bound to your mother, technically. If she ordered him to jump off a cliff, he'd be forced to follow through."

"That's barbaric," she said.

"It is," he agreed, "but only when you pledge service falsely. I was twenty when I entered Maeve's service. She wanted me because I was powerful—because I'm probably the most powerful earth-wielder that ever lived. If I felt like it, I could cleave those mountains in two."

She stared him down steadily. "Is that supposed to scare me?"

"Gods, no," he said in a huff of laughter. "I might be the most powerful earth-wielder, but you and Kasper are the most powerful _Fae_ that I've ever encountered. Maeve brought your parents together, but she didn't know what kind of maelstrom she was creating. You and Kasper are something else—something beyond what Fae should be, by all rights. You haven't seen a bottom to your power yet, and I'm not convinced there is one, or if there is, it'll take months, maybe years, to reach it. And what kind of bottom is that, really?"

She flinched. "What's your point? To make me feel scared of myself?"

"No," said Vaughan. "Just to give you some picture of how much power you've got. But regardless, I joined Maeve because I was _broken,_ not because I honored her as my queen. I'd killed my sister, and then all I wanted to do was kill or be killed. And because of my gifts, I ended up doing more of the former. I pledged my life to her because I thought that was it—that killing was all I'd ever want."

"And you were wrong?"

"Yes," Vaughan said, swiping a hand over his face. "I was wrong."

Leta leaned against the trunk of a tree. "Why did you kill your sister, Vaughan?" she said quietly.

He'd known the question was coming, but it hit him like a blow to the stomach.

"I thought you said I'd have my own time to tell you that," he croaked.

"I'm asking," Leta said, "because I don't trust you anymore. And I'd like to know the truth. That doesn't mean you have to give it to me."

He snorted. "You make it sound so easy."

"That's because it is, Vaughan," she said, straightening. "I'm so fucking sick and tired of your poor-me game. Sure, the world is gray, but to an extent, it's also black and white. You could've told me about Maeve, but you didn't. You could've told me about the blood oath, but you didn't. You could've tried harder to tell me the truth about my mother, but you _didn't._ "

"Would you have believed me?"

"No," she said. "I wouldn't have. But dammit all to hell, there's something to be said for at least bothering to try."

He swallowed back his protests. She had him there.

"I offered to free you," she said. "You dug your own grave. In a few hours, my father—who, from what it sounds like, is not a particularly sunny person—will be at your throat. He and Aelin will dish out whatever punishment they please, and there's not a thing I can do about it, and not a thing I _will_ do about it. I've given you too many second chances. I've given you too much, period." Her chest rose and fell unsteadily, sharply. "You _didn't_ try, Vaughan. You told me once and you gave up. You kissed me and fed me lies like they were honey."

"That's not fair," he said hoarsely. "I stopped whatever—whatever was between us."

"Bull _shit_ ," she snarled. "You did no such thing. Oh, sure, you stopped it in name. But tell me, Vaughan, did you really push me away? Did you _really_?"

"I tried—"

"No, you _didn't_ ," she hissed. "You keep on using that word. _Try._ Like it's some massive excuse for the pile of shit you dropped at my doorstep. It's not. _Try_ is the kind of word that weak people want to use when they know they've done something wrong and they don't have the balls to admit it to themselves."

Vaughan snapped.

Because he was tired, and angry, and burdened with too much knowledge. And because she was right.

He pushed himself to his feet and strode over to her, jabbing a finger at her chest. "Get off your high horse, Leta," he growled. "You wanted me just as much as I wanted you. Don't make it sound like I _seduced_ you—poor little Leta, lost and confused." He scoffed. "You forget that I could smell what was running through your veins just as easily as you could smell what was running through mine."

She whitened.

"And I'm _sorry_ ," he went on, the earth tremoring beneath his feet. "Alright? I'm _sorry._ Maybe I didn't _try_ hard enough to tell you the truth—maybe I should've been honest with you from the start. But whatever I did, I did with the intention of keeping you safe. Call good intentions the cushions of cowards, I don't really care, but my intentions _were_ good. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I could've been blood-bound to Maeve and still wanted to help you? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, I wanted desperately to get you out of those mountains in one piece, mentally as much as physically, for my own reasons? Maybe my methods were wrong. So fucking _sue_ me, alright?" He threw his hands up.

She took another step forward. The invisible strand between them had gone taut, vibrating with suppressed emotion.

"You _asshole_ ," she breathed. "Are you really defending yourself right now? Are you serious?"

"I am," he said calmly. They were so close that he could reach out and brush her waist. "I've decided to take your advice, love. I've decided to do better than _try._ "

She reached out and shoved him.

He staggered back, and this time, it wasn't from lack of any fight in him. It was because she was _strong._

He bared his teeth at her and snapped his chains, his arms flinging out open wide. "Come and get me, _love_."

She let out a shriek of rage and rushed for him, but he darted to the side, quick as a whip, and laughed at her. "You forget," he said, waggling his finger at her. "You might have extraordinary gifts, but I've got a century's worth of training on my side."

She lunged for him, but he again danced out of her reach as she stumbled. "Really," he said, examining his fingernails. "Is that the best you can do? And here I thought I might finally have a worthy opponent."

That was about when he pushed it too far.

She sent a gust of wind his way so strong that it knocked him off his feet, sending him flying through the air until he landed flat on his back on the ground, shockwaves tremoring up his spine. In a second, she was there, on top of his chest, legs on either side of him.

He half-snickered, half-wheezed, and spat blood onto the ground. "That's not exactly playing fair, is it?"

" _Bastard,"_ she began, lifting her hand, but quick as a whip, he turned over, pinning her to the ground.

He didn't linger. Instead, he leapt back on his feet.

"Let's see if you can win in a fair fight, princess," he taunted. "Unless you'd like me to split open the earth beneath your feet."

"Go ahead and _try,_ " she said.

He just smirked at her lazily, folding his arms and leaning against a boulder. "How disappointing."

She jumped for him, soaring through air faster than should be possible, and this time, he let her collide into him. They rolled on the ground, collecting leaves and debris.

"I _hate_ you," she said, hitting his shoulder. "I _hate_ you."

"Then do something about it," he snarled, and shoved herself off, getting to his feet again. _I hate you._

They faced each other for a moment, both of them panting. Leta's hair was a wreck, mussed with leaves and twigs and stones, and she had a scratch on one cheek. Blood dripped from Vaughan's mouth.

Leta's teeth were bared, her curved ears parting the folds of her silver hair, and for the first time since Vaughan had met her, she looked like what she was. She looked Fae.

She narrowed her eyes, calling for another gust of wind, but he slammed up a shield of earth before him, and the wind did nothing. He leaped on top of his newfound mountain, blood pattering on the soil.

"Come on, love," he said. "You can do better."

He regretted saying those words.

She reached out a hand instinctively, and for a moment nothing happened.

Then he heard it: the roaring.

She'd called the river half a mile away, and a well's worth of it dangled above his head, glimmering and writhing, bits of ice plummeting to the ground. A sea of brackish water obscuring the inky night sky.

He simply cocked a brow at the display, and silently sent her the words he knew she could read in his eyes. _I dare you._

She let it fall.

And that was when Vaughan really let loose.

He cut out the ground from under them, made a trench ten feet wide with a deafening _crack_ , and shifted as the water pounded into the crevice in the earth. He heard Leta's infuriated caw as she, too, shifted; saw the form of her condor outlined by the moon.

She zeroed in on him, massive wings flapping, and shifted in midair, flipping to grab Vaughan's legs.

He was so shocked that he shifted back, and the two of them plunged towards the ground. He didn't even scream; he just grinned at Leta in a feral smile, his bloodied mouth splattering both their faces in a mockery of crimson freckles.

She stopped them at the last minute, cushioned their blow enough that when they hit the ground, it just knocked all the wind out of his chest; it didn't actually kill him. She landed on top of him, straddling his hips again, and drew back, incisors slid down over her lower lip.

" _Don't,"_ she snarled, " _play with me."_

He laughed as he reached up, and in a quick, feral, primal instinct, bit her neck.

She sucked in a sharp breath, and his mouth filled with the taste of her blood, the taste of dried wildflowers and sprigs of herbs. He spat it out almost immediately, attempting to worm out from underneath her, but she didn't let him.

She pressed her lips to his in a searing, desperate kiss.

It was all it took.

He curved forward, flipping her down onto the ground, and felt her pressed against him, every inch of her skin lighting his on fire. His hands were in her hair, winding and unwinding, and her fingernails dug into his scalp, kneading and scratching.

They parted, briefly, before coming back together. It was natural, easy, fluid; _panicked._ Rough and wild and untamed.

" _Leta,"_ he whispered.

"What," a voice said, "the _fuck_ is going on here?"

In hindsight, it had probably been inevitable.

He broke apart from Leta, but only barely, just in time to see Kasper, Lorcan, and Aelin standing at the edge of the clearing, staring at them and the mess they'd created.

Kasper was flushed, red-faced, eyes wide as saucers.

Lorcan stared at the disaster they'd made—the water still trickling into the ten-foot trench, the blood and the jagged heaps of earth. One of the trees was split right down the middle from when Leta had hurled Vaughan at it with the force of her wind. Lorcan had one hand on his forehead, and he was muttering something under his breath that Vaughan couldn't make out.

Aelin looked…

She looked… shocked. Shocked, and very, very pale.

"Holy burning hell," Lorcan said raspily.

Neither Leta nor Vaughan moved, though they were perhaps in not the best of positions. Her fingernails were digging into his back, and his hands had begun to travel up beneath her tunic.

Aelin lifted a trembling hand to her brow. "Vaughan," she said, voice trembling ever-so-slightly, though whether with fury or some other emotion he didn't know, "did you… _bite_ her?"

He let out a black oath, and he detached himself from Leta, though his blood was still humming.

"Aelin," he began.

But she wasn't looking at him. She was looking at Leta.

"So this," she said slowly, understanding seeping in, "is why you wanted me to let him free. You love him."

Leta blanched. "What? No. _No._ "

Vaughan's features went carefully blank.

Aelin closed her eyes and whispered something that sounded faintly like a mixture of curses, slurs, pleas on the gods, and Rowan's name. When she opened her eyes again, they had gone hard and cold.

"You marked my daughter," she said to Vaughan. "You _marked_ her."

Vaughan gritted his teeth. "If I recall," he said, "I seem to remember that I sensed something similar when I arrived at Mistward. Placed there by _Rowan._ "

"That was different," Aelin said coolly.

He smiled at her. "Was it?" he said. "Was it really, Aelin?"

Her eyes flicked from him, and then to Leta, her skin draining of all color. "Liar," she breathed. "Lying _bastard._ "

"Maybe," Vaughan said, shrugging. "Then again, maybe not."

"He didn't _mark_ me," Leta interrupted.

He winced. Aelin, predictably, pounced.

"Oh, really?" she said. "Then what the hell are those fang marks on your neck, Leta?"

"Aelin, enough," said—of all people— _Lorcan._

They all whipped around to stare at him.

"Please, Aelin," Lorcan said. "You were raised by Arobynn Hamel. I have no doubt that you'd done worse at her age. And don't you dare try to pull the different card, because it's not about to hold a bit of sway."

Aelin appeared as if she'd very much like to set them all on fire.

"Here's what's going to happen," Lorcan said. "We are all going to walk back to the camp. Fire-breathing bitch-queens will go the fuck to sleep, and their equally irritating children will do likewise. I'll take the watch until dawn. Vaughan won't go anywhere. Satisfied?"

" _No,"_ Aelin said.

"You and Whitethorn can rip him to pieces tomorrow," Lorcan said. "But I actually want to reach the capital alive, and that isn't going to happen unless everyone goes off into a corner and counts to ten."

"Wait," Leta said. "I want to talk to Vaughan before—"

Lorcan said, "Absolutely not," at the same time Aelin said, "No chance in hell."

Vaughan fixed them all with a glower. "I'd like to talk to her too."

In the blink of an eye, a circle of wildfire appeared around his feet. "Watch your footing, dear," Aelin purred. "Or you'll find yourself with one less limb faster than you can say my daughter's name."

Leta set her jaw, and while Vaughan thought for a moment she might protest, she didn't. "Fine." She flicked her gaze over to Vaughan, but her eyes didn't soften.

For once, he wished he couldn't read what was written so plainly in her gaze.

 _This meant nothing._

She strode away without another word. A bright flash of light as she shifted into a condor, flying over the trench, and another as she landed on the ground. She didn't look at her mother, or her brother, or the Fae that had rescued her from a barroom and a man that had gotten too handsy.

She didn't look at any of them. She stood tall and proud, and she needed no one to hold her up.

Vaughan wiped his hand over his mouth, and it came away stained with carmine. He didn't know if it was Leta's blood or his own.

—

 **LETA**

Hindsight, Leta discovered, was something of a bitch.

She woke early the next day after fitfully dozing the rest of the night. Dawn streaked the horizon, the sky awash with the pale blue of the in-between of night's violet and day's hazy turquoise.

Lorcan sat by the fire, roasting something on a spit that distinctively resembled a squirrel. Leta glanced across the campsite and saw Vaughan asleep, leaning against the massive trunk of a maple tree, cushioned on a bed of dead leaves. Kasper and Aelin were also asleep, both of their hair a mussed cloud of honey.

Lorcan spotted her and frowned. A blade of grass was stuck between his front teeth as he chewed it absentmindedly. "Ah," he said. "The prodigal daughter awakens."

Leta glared at him.

"If I were you," Lorcan said, "I'd go wash off as best you could in the river. You've got dried blood and all other kinds of filth all over you. Though there's not much that can be done for the teeth marks on your neck."

She lifted her fingers to the puncture wounds. They were exquisitely sensitive, and her cheeks flushed as she remembered how she'd gotten them.

"Especially," Lorcan added significantly, "considering we'll reach your father's city in a few hours."

She jumped, startled. "A few _hours_?"

She'd known—had said as much to Vaughan—but it was different, somehow, hearing it coming out of Lorcan's mouth.

"You chose a very inconvenient time to have a tumble in the mud." Lorcan wrinkled his nose. "Zamil's scent is all over you."

"Zamil?"

"Vaughan's family name," Lorcan said. "You really don't know much about him, do you?"

"Leave her alone," a familiar voice rumbled from over by the maple tree.

Leta stiffened as Vaughan stretched, his shirt riding up on his stomach. He scrubbed his face, scratching the stubble on his chin.

Lorcan scrutinized Vaughan. "You're either in far over your head," he said, "or incredibly stupid. I can't decide which."

"Both," Vaughan answered, tipping his head back against the bark. His eyes fell on Leta—namely, on the bite marks on her neck.

The air shifted with a newer, deeper scent.

Lorcan cursed. "Control yourselves, both of you," he said. "Leta, go wash up. Zamil, pretend to be asleep. It'll be more pleasant for everyone."

"Don't tell her what to do," Vaughan said.

Lorcan's expression became flinty. "Leta, _now_. Zamil and I need to have a few words."

Leta considered staying behind, but frankly, she didn't feel like it. She was still pissed-off at Vaughan for the previous night, and she was all too aware of the grit and grime coating her skin, the dried blood flaking on her throat.

She headed off for the river, praying to whatever gods were holy that she could at least get the dirt off her face.

The river was a rushing fury of ice, inhospitable and unkind. She had no intention of going anywhere near it: she simply called up a blob of water and let it hover in the air as she splashed cool droplets on her forearms, forehead, and neck. The water came away stained russet and brown.

There wasn't much she could do about her hair, so she settled for rinsing it once in the icy water and pinning it up high on her head. She could see her murky, distorted reflection in the quicksilver blob she'd called up from the river: a pale, drawn face with two tiny holes near the hollow of her throat.

She didn't bother with those. If nothing else, they'd piss off Aelin.

She trudged back toward the camp as the sun began to streak the sky with variegated pinks and oranges, boots crunching on the frosty grass.

"—you think I _wanted_ this?"

Leta stopped short at the voice. Vaughan.

She peered through the trees. Vaughan and Lorcan were talking near the fire—probably having the 'words' Lorcan had spoken of.

"I don't know, and neither do I care," said Lorcan. "All I'm telling you is that you're on very thin ice."

"I'm aware, thanks," Vaughan snapped. "And anyway, who are you to judge me? What's the reason you were really in those mountains again?"

"I'm not judging you, Zamil; don't get your knickers in a twist," Lorcan replied irritably. "I'm just telling you that you're in even deeper than you think. You didn't see Whitethorn when Galathynius was around. He was… irrational."

"He was irrational before."

"Not like this, he wasn't." Lorcan shook his head and took his spit off the fire. "Want some?"

"Squirrel? I prefer to eat woodland creatures in my animal form, thank you. Or even better, not at all."

"Suit yourself," Lorcan said, and bit into the squirrel with a sickening _crunch_ that made Leta's skin crawl. "What you did last night was idiotic."

"It was her as much as me—"

"I don't care, and neither will they," Lorcan said. "They're looking at the world through distorted glasses, and I don't think that even you can contest that they've earned that right."

"Even when it's at my expense?" Vaughan snorted.

"Even when it's at your expense," said Lorcan, biting into the squirrel again. Its dead eyes seemed to stare right at Leta. "You should've taken her up when she offered to get you out. You had your chance."

"Aelin would've stopped it anyway."

"Would she?" Lorcan asked, swallowing a particularly gruesome bite. "Because I think that there are very few people that are real matches for Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and her daughter is one of them."

Vaughan curled his hands into fists. "I won't leave," he said in a low voice. "Not when I don't know if she's immortal. Elide is mortal. You should know—"

"Careful," Lorcan rumbled.

"You should know," Vaughan repeated, "what it feels like. You should know _why._ "

Lorcan jabbed his now-cleaned spit into the ground. "Of course I know _why_ ," he said. "But I thought I'd do my best to prepare you for what lies ahead. It won't be easy, and it won't be pleasant. And there are no guarantees that she'll be able—or even want—to keep you safe. He's going to go berserk."

"Let him," Vaughan snapped. "Yes, I _know_ the Galathynius family is, in fact, terrifying. They have horrifying might and power, they will burn me until I am no more than a whisper of ashes on the wind—"

"How poetic," said Lorcan dryly.

"—etcetera, etcetera." Vaughan folded his arms and leaned against the trunk of a fallen tree. "But if Rowan wants to come after me, he'll regret it. I'll come after him twice as hard."

"And you'll lose," Lorcan said with a shrug. "But that's your decision, not mine."

"I'm going to fight for her," Vaughan said.

Leta's heart skipped a beat.

Lorcan just stared into the leaping, flickering flames of the fire. "Then," he said, "you have my condolences."

Leta had had enough. She strode into the camp, emerging from the trees, and said brightly, "It's such a lovely morning, don't you think?"

She had the satisfaction of seeing Vaughan jump about an inch and a half in the air, but Lorcan didn't even seem surprised.

"We'll be on our way to the capital in an hour at most," he said. "I hope you're ready to meet your father."

—

 **KASPER**

The ride into the city was tense.

Everyone was mad at everyone, it seemed: Leta was furious with Vaughan and pissed at Aelin, Aelin was angry at Leta and livid with Vaughan, Lorcan was irritated at everyone, and Vaughan seemed to be ticked-off at the world in general.

Kasper wasn't sore at anyone. A bit disturbed at the events of the previous night, but otherwise he mostly wished that everyone would get over themselves.

The sky overhead was a pale, icy blue, bleached from night and yet unstained from day. Fog curled off the water, and Kasper's breath came out in plumes of frozen air. The boat streaked down the river as he commanded the winds, Leta streamlining the water from underneath.

Kasper could almost see a sort of taut wire stretching between her and Vaughan. Every Fae onboard, Kasper included, could smell what ran between them: animosity, anger, hurt… and attraction.

No wonder they were all on-edge.

Kasper had caught his mother looking at him strangely these past days, eying him as he stood at the prow of the boat. Sometimes he'd open his mouth to ask her about it only to close it abruptly, afraid of her answer. Maybe… maybe she was disgusted with him, after what he'd done at Sollemere. Kas couldn't blame her. He was disgusted with himself.

Who wouldn't be?

Lorcan had come up to him one night, after the rest were asleep on the ship. "It's because you look like Rowan," he'd said.

"What?"

"Leta has his genetics," Lorcan said. "Even personality-wise, she's far more like Rowan than Aelin, just like you've got your mother's looks and traits. But here, controlling the wind, at the front of the ship…" He shrugged. "You look like Rowan the last time Aelin saw him. It's hard for her."

Kasper clenched his fists over the railing of the ship. "Have you ever met your mate?"

Lorcan jerked back, surprised. "Why would you ask a question like that?" he said sharply. "Has your mother told you about—" He cut himself off.

"No," Kasper said. "She hasn't told me much about you, other than who you are. I just… I don't know. Wondered."

Lorcan unclenched and clenched his jaw. "I don't know," he said finally.

Kasper dragged a hand through his hair. "It can work like that? You might not… know?"

"Where is this coming from?" Lorcan said. "Do you think you might have…" A dawning horror entered his voice. "Found them? Your mate?"

"I did horrible things," said Kasper hoarsely. "There. In Sollemere. You don't… My mother doesn't even know the half of it. All that I've done. All that I would do… again."

"That's a family trait," Lorcan said.

"What?" Kasper let out a short, bitter laugh. "A demented streak?"

"No," Lorcan said. "Your parents are very different, you know. As different as Leta and your mother—it's why they clash. Rowan and Aelin did in the beginning, too. But the one thing that brought them together, above all other things, is how little they value themselves."

"That's a sad thought."

"Is it?" said Lorcan, folding himself over the railing. "They say sometimes that you have to love yourself in order to love someone else, but I wonder if that's true. The most powerful, destructive love can come from a capacity to think someone else's life above your own in every way—above any sort of trial or tribulation or torture you might withstand."

Kasper let the winds drop, just for a moment. "You sound like you know the feeling."

Lorcan didn't reply to his comment. Instead, he said, "Don't let Maeve win, Kasper. She delights in physical torture, but it's destruction of the mental variety—the ability to break someone's mind and spirit so thoroughly that they are useless putty in her hands—that she revels in. People heal from physical scars. Psychological ones are infinitely harder to overcome."

"Maybe I shouldn't," said Kasper bitterly. "Overcome mine, I mean."

"Bullshit," Lorcan said bluntly. "You killed people, Kasper." Kasper flinched. "I'm sure you did other things—things you aren't telling me, if your melodramatic lamentations are to be believed."

"They're not melodramatic," Kasper said hotly.

"That's bullshit, too," Lorcan muttered. "Another family trait, incidentally, but that's beside the point."

"And what _is_ your point?" Kasper demanded.

"That like it or not, you were born with three last names: Whitethorn, Ashryver, and Galathynius," Lorcan said, ticking each off on his fingers. "And that means you're not an ordinary, good-spirited soul, Kasper. You are not nice, and you are not saintly, and you are perhaps not even intrinsically _good._ But you will fight tooth-and-nail for your values and the people that you love, and in order to save them—at all costs, put them far, far above yourself—you will kill and burn until you have nothing left to give."

Kasper's throat closed up.

"It's who you are," said Lorcan. "Your sister, too, believe it or not, though it's less obvious in her case than in yours. Own it. Use it to your advantage. There will come a day, Kasper Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius—a day perhaps not so very far-off—when you will have to decide between preserving your humanity and saving the ones that you love."

"And what kind of choice is that?" Kasper shot back. "How am I any better than Erawan if I obliterate any vestige of humanity?"

Lorcan laughed quietly. "Don't be naive," he said, a laced undercurrent of steel to his words. "It's not humanity that preserves us, Kasper, because you and I—your mother, your sister, your father—we're _not_ human. Not even close. And it's precisely because we're not human that we have a chance in hell of winning against the bastards like Erawan."

"And what makes us better than them?" Kasper said, intending the words to come out defiant and proud, but they instead sounded reedy and weak and weary. "What makes you so sure that we should win the wars at all?"

"Because we have hope of a better world," Lorcan said. "Erawan has hope of a blacker one. Sometimes that's all we've got, Kasper." He pushed himself away from the prow of the boat. "Life isn't made up of the good and bad extremes—it's varying shades and degrees of monsters. And it's what we hope to achieve with our monstrosity that makes the wars worth winning."

Now, no more than an hour away from the capital, Leta came to stand beside Kasper. She had an oddly reassuring presence—her magic seemed to balance out the roiling storm within him, cold tempering his heat. He could see Vaughan's fang marks still imprinted on her neck.

"Stop," she said.

"Stop what?"

"Looking at them," she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Judging me."

"I wasn't judging you," Kasper said, startled.

Leta threw him a dubious look. "No?"

" _No."_ He shook his head. "I don't… I don't really know what all of that was about, last night—"

"That makes two of us," she muttered.

"—but I won't _judge_ you for it," he said. "I don't know the whole story behind… whatever happened with Vaughan." He lowered his voice, all too aware of the Fae ears on the boat. "I'm sure there's more than the rest of us are seeing."

"Isn't there always," she said, but extended her hand and looped her fingers through his. "Thank you." Her eyes were wide and opaque. It was startling, Kasper thought, to see his mother's eyes on the girl standing before him—and even more startling to discover that they fit.

He offered her a small smile. "Nervous?" he said.

"Very," she said. "I haven't… I don't know. I don't think I've wrapped my mind around all of… this yet."

"Join the club," he said.

She smiled at him. It lit up her face, made her severe, steep bone structure soften, her relentless eyes lightening. "I'm glad I met you," she said. "I never thought that I had anyone, much less a brother."

"A twin," he added. "It's a little uncanny."

"At least we're not identical."

" _That,"_ Kasper said with a shudder, "would be _horrifying._ "

She laughed, and three heads on the boat snapped over so fast that Kasper thought he heard the bones in their neck crack. It was the first time, he realized, that he had heard her sister laugh. It wasn't a pretty, delicate laugh, but rather a sort of snort, a series of huffs and inhales.

He laughed back, until the two of them had dissolved into a fit of hysterics. Not really because what Kasper had said was particularly intelligent or witty, but because after everything, after all the tears and sleepless nights and scars inside and out, they needed to laugh.

When they finished, Leta wiping her eyes, Kasper caught Vaughan staring at her. For once, his features were naked, completely unfettered, and the look on his face…

Longing. Horrible, awful longing, and agony, and regret. It made Kasper's stomach twist.

But as soon as it had appeared, it was gone, Vaughan turning away as if he couldn't bear to look at Leta anymore.

A gasp ricocheted from the back of the boat, and Leta and Kasper straightened, reaching for their magic.

But it was only Aelin, pushing her way to the front, eyes silver-lined, lips trembling.

"Home," she whispered.

In unison, Kasper and Leta whirled.

There, on the horizon: the skyline of Orynth. The capital of Kasper's country.

He had never seen anything so beautiful.

The city was a sprawling mass of stone and glazed snow, silver, gold, and glass bridges gleaming in the difference. It was a vertical capital, clawing up high into the sky, a sprawling mass of marble and granite and hewn rock. Domed temples with gold-painted cupolas gleamed, clock towers scraped the sky; statues of silver curled and sprawled. It glittered with snow and frost, thick flurries tumbling from the clouds.

And above it all, casting its lengthy shadow, was the castle, nestled in a bed of conifers the precise shade of Kasper's eyes: alabaster and obsidian and limestone, curved turrets and the defenses of a military fortress.

Leta reached up to wipe her eyes, but Kasper could only stare.

"Home," he echoed.

—

 **ROWAN**

It had been another fruitless day. War brought out the worst and the best in people, and so far, Rowan had been introduced to only the former. They were at a stalemate: his court was divided. Half wanted to focus on Erawan, the other half on _her,_ all for varying selfish reasons.

Rowan dragged a hand through his hair as he ascended the stairs. It had grown long again in the years since the war, falling around his shoulders in a curtain of silver.

As he walked down a hallway, he paused to glance at his reflection in the glass. Pale and wan, dark circles haunted his eyes. He needed to shave; silver stubble was not a particularly good look.

He exhaled and climbed another set of stairs. Just one more until he reached his chambers. _One more…_

He took a left onto a narrow, winding corridor and paused.

Sniffed.

His heart stopped dead in his chest.

And then he was running.

Servants shrieked as they ducked out of his way, one laundress throwing up her basket in a fountain of white cotton. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, streaking through the halls in a blur, vaulting up the stairs five, six at a time; even seven or eight.

He was stumbling, tripping. Rowan was not clumsy, not usually, but _this… Now…_

He halted, heartbeat thundering.

He stood before the door to his chambers: the thick slab of oak, so unremarkable, that had blocked the threshold to her bedroom for sixteen years.

Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius withdrew the key that hung around his neck, slid it into the lock, and pushed the door open.

There was no outward sign of disruption. His sitting room was untouched, the carpets and chairs yet undisturbed, the carefully alphabetized bookshelves neat and dust-free. In the parlor to his right, the piano was unmarred and glossy, the black matte catching the feeble wintry light slipping in through the green-and-silver windowpanes.

On his left was his bedroom, the door still securely fastened. Rowan pulled out another key, swallowing hard.

Her _scent_ … He couldn't be wrong, he _knew_ that scent…

His Fae ears pricked. He almost thought he heard the sound of another person breathing on the other side of the door.

He inserted the key into the lock with a _snick_ , twisted the knob, and pulled.

And there, slumped back in one of the plush armchairs near the fireplace, feet kicked up, casually filing her nails with a knife, was his mate.

His _carranam._ His wife. His queen.

She lifted her blue-and-gold eyes to meet his, and he was sure that she intended to be suave and smooth, cat-caught-the-canary surprised, but the knife dropped from her hands and clattered to the floor.

Her pulse thrummed at the base of her throat like the beat of a hummingbird's wings.

" _Aelin,"_ he whispered.

And then he was across the room, yanking her off the chair and hauling her into his arms, and he was sobbing, wracked with keening, horrible, animal noises, and she was weeping, kissing his face just as frantically as he kissed hers, and he was rocking her back and forth, on his knees on the cold stone floor, stroking her hair, inhaling the scent he had missed for _so long,_ the scent he had known even after all that time, because he would know it when they were nothing but stars and dust, burning too brightly, too fast, just as they had done in their corporeal forms.

She pulled back, just for a minute, to frame his face in her hands, and smiled, laughing through her tears. "Buzzard," she sniffled.

He roared with laughter— _roared_ with it, as he had not done since the day she was taken away from him. "Brat," he said raspily, leaning into kiss her, hard and furious and desperate. She responded, curling her hands in her hair, warm and soft and smelling of lemon verbena and jasmine. He withdrew, eyes hazy, and murmured, "Please tell me this isn't a dream."

"It's not," she said. "I'm here. I'm here." Her lip trembled, and she cupped his cheek. "You look pale. Have you been sleeping?"

He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "I haven't slept a day since you were taken away." His voice turned hoarse. "How—how did you—Maeve—"

She slumped, falling into his solid chest. "Rowan, there's something you need to know. Something I need to tell you."

"You're here," he said, closing her eyes and pressing his face into her hair. "You're here. That's all that matters. You're my mate, and you're _home._ "

She stilled. It was the first time he'd said those words to her.

"You know, then," she said. She shook her head, voice wobbling. "Of course you do."

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wish you'd told me," he said, and kissed her forehead. "Selfless, self-sacrificing brat." It came out weak and fragile, as if it had been spun from glass—as if he had been sitting on a throne of glass just inches away from shattering for the past sixteen years.

"Rowan," she said again, clinging to him, fingernails digging into his skin. He continued his trail of kisses, tears still streaking down his cheeks. She stopped him, shaking his shoulders. " _Rowan."_

He cut her off with a sharp, searing kiss and lifted her up, carrying her over not to the bed but to the bathroom. "You smell," he murmured against her mouth. "And fortunately, the bath is large enough for two."

Aelin peered up at him for a moment. She was so thin—he could feel each of her individual ribs beneath the cheap fabric of her tunic, and the ridges and bumps of new scars along her back.

"I missed you," she said softly. Brokenly.

He shoved open the door and kissed her, this time gently, his lips barely brushing against hers. "Fireheart," he hissed against her mouth.

She growled and pulled him down harder, and he laughed, twisting on the taps of the marble bath savagely. "Say it again," she said, kissing his mouth, his neck, the hollow of his throat, as she undid the lacings on his shirt, slipped off her boots.

" _Fireheart."_

She shucked off her shirt, and Rowan's world went white.

" _Again,"_ she hissed, undoing his belt, fingers scraping at his abdomen.

" _Fireheart,"_ he breathed, pinning her down as he stripped off her sweat-soaked leggings and shucked off his own trousers.

She snarled with satisfaction as he pressed himself against her. She slipped into the water and yanked him with her, and they fell into the scalding heat with a splash.

He laughed, pressing his face to her belly. Her hands traveled up and down the ridges of his stomach, slipping and sliding in the slick surface of the tub.

" _Fireheart,"_ he murmured against her skin—an answer to the prayers and the lonely hours and the snatched seconds of borrowed time.

It was his last coherent thought before his world dissolved into a haze of fire and ice.

—

 **LETA**

Aelin was apparently very particular about her plans. She'd commanded the rest of them to wait in the forest about ten minutes outside of the city while she broke into the palace—to wait around and twiddle their thumbs while she, in her words, 'took care of things.'

Lorcan had not been in favor of this plan. "Aelin," he'd said impatiently. "Why the fuck are you going to break into your own castle?"

"Because it'll be a surprise," she said. "Same reason I didn't commission an envoy." She'd studied them with narrowed eyes. "I'm going to have to figure out a way to break the news. We need to minimize chaos, not maximize it."

"Since when has that been your prerogative?" Lorcan had argued, but she was already off, heading toward her city with the cowl of her cloak pinned down firmly over her head.

"Try to follow me, Salvaterre, and I'll disembowel you," she'd warned.

His only answer had been a rippling growl, but he'd stayed behind anyway.

They'd made a temporary camp near the edge of the river, and Lorcan had promptly announced that he'd had enough of this mess, and marched off—presumably find another squirrel to eat. Kasper had remained on the boat, tethering it to the river.

Leaving, perhaps unintentionally, Leta and Vaughan together.

He was a wreck, she noticed; though most of his injuries had healed, he was still fairly battered and beaten. He leaned against the base of a huge conifer while she did likewise with a maple, both of them stewing in uncomfortable, stiff silence. As they had been for the past hour.

Her gaze drifted to his, only to find him watching her. She wanted to snap at him, to bark out some irritated quip as her mother or Lorcan or even Kasper would have done, but she didn't. Couldn't.

Last night hadn't made things better. It had made things worse. All she could remember was the feeling of his hands in her hair, pressing her down into the earth, fast and furious and wild…

His lips curved upwards, and he sniffed the air delicately. "My," he said, "what _is_ that _delectable_ smell I detect coming from your blood?"

She met his gaze flatly.

No, she wouldn't snap at him. She'd do him one better.

Slowly, she pulled her arms up over her head, arching her back as she stretched, closing her eyes as the muscles in her stomach and arms pulled.

A rich aroma laced the air.

She smiled, opening her half-lidded eyes to look at him. "Problem?" she said.

He huffed a sound that might've been a curse or a laugh. "You play dirty."

"So," she purred, "do you."

He stiffened. "Careful, love," he warned roughly. "This game could have unforseen circumstances."

Leta exhaled. Of course it did. Every game with him had unforeseen circumstances—the lies he'd told her compounded by the declarations of last night that had made her heart hurt, the way she'd caught him looking at her lately, the scent that surrounded him when she accidentally brushed his arm.

She was tired of it. She hated that he made her feel this way—that she had no steady footing around him, no solid ground.

She missed the nights where he'd held her while she slept, when she'd woken up with her head on his chest. She missed them more than she was willing to admit.

Which was perhaps why she pushed herself off the ground and walked over to the tree where he sat, indulging in her week, feeble heart.

His breathing changed, quickening with alarming rapidity, but he didn't say anything as she sat down beside him and eased herself into his arms. Warm—familiar—

The only place she had ever felt safe. He was cloves and smoke, safety and yet the razor-lined edge of risk, nutmeg skin and walnut locks.

She kissed him.

He hissed against her mouth, and whatever control the two of them had had shattered. He flipped her over onto the ground, legs entwining, kissing her and skimming his hands up and down her waist, drifting kisses lower and lower still.

She reached for the hem of his shirt, but he stopped her. "We can't," he said raggedly. "I can't…"

Leta studied him, twigs and rocks digging into her back, and something in her heart tightened.

She wanted him. Pathetically. Completely. For his charming quips and his warm, safe arms; for the way he called her _love_ and listened to her talk about the stars; for the way he flew with her, for the way they seemed to be able to communicate without words.

"Why?" she said quietly.

"Because marking you like this… It can't be undone. Not ever."

Leta couldn't argue. She couldn't say that whatever was between them wasn't a mistake she might regret later—she only knew that she wanted it.

"I love you," he said, sliding off of her. "You know that, don't you?"

No. She didn't.

When she didn't answer, a shudder wracked him, and agony flashed over his features.

"Just hold me for a while," she said. "Please."

Vaughan didn't say anything else. He scooped her up in his arms and, cradling her delicately, like a china doll, nestled her against him. She eased her head into the crook of his neck, and he buried his face in her hair, kissing the top of her head.

He eased one arm around her waist, holding her tightly, and the sounds of the rest of the world faded away as he stroked her back, easing her into a gentle, dreamless sleep.

—

 **LORCAN**

He wanted to be with Elide. He didn't want to be stuck in this forest, babysitting idiotic Zamil and two relative children.

He hated Aelin. Actually hated her.

He trudged back to the camp. He'd swung his axe for an hour, hitting the same notch in a tree, until he'd cut three trees down, letting off the steam and anger roiling in his gut.

It was still there, of course. But at least it was slightly assuaged.

When he reached the camp, however, he stopped short.

Zamil and Leta were curled up together, both of them sound asleep.

He was about to ream them both, but something stopped him. The way they looked…

Leta had her head on his chest, face easy, peaceful; relaxed. Her legs were woven in his, his arms around her waist. Vaughan's own features were completely unmarred, his mouth slightly ajar as he slept. It was an easy, practiced position, as if they'd done it before. Many times.

Leta shifted slightly, and Zamil adjusted his position, kissing her neck even as he slept. An unconscious movement, natural as breathing.

It was then that Lorcan started to suspect what none of them had dared even voice as a possibility.

"Shit," he muttered.

Just then, there was a rustling, and a wild-eyed Kasper burst through the trees.

"Lorcan," he said, panicked. "There's an armada coming down the river."

Immediately, Lorcan went alert, reaching for his axe. "What?" he barked. "Are you sure? How many ships?"

"I don't know," Kasper said. "Six or seven?"

Lorcan blinked. "That's not an armada. How big were they?"

"About the size of ours," said Kasper. "I don't know. I've never seen an armada before. They were nicer than ours—fancy."

"Did they have a flag?"

Kasper nodded. "They had three, actually."

"Well?" Lorcan exploded. "What did they look like?"

"One of them was red," Kasper said. "With a gold dragon on it. Another one had a black crow, or something, and the third one—"

"Let me guess," Lorcan said, putting up a hand. "A black-and-blue cauldron."

Kasper blinked. "How did you know?"

Lorcan didn't answer. Instead, he sent a tendril of darkness over to Leta and Zamil to slap them in the face.

They both jerked with twin yelps, their heads knocking together, and Kasper's eyes widened even further.

"Get up," Lorcan snarled at both of them. "Follow me to the river."

Vaughan blinked as Leta scrambled to her feet. "What? Why?"

Lorcan stalked off, hefting his axe in his hand. "It's been a long while since I've seen Dorian Havilliard," he replied. "This should be interesting."

Vaughan cursed, and Leta hurried after Lorcan, dread and anticipation mounting in her chest.

—

 **DORIAN**

Dorian was exhausted.

They'd doubled their speed to get to Orynth when Orion was found missing, and they'd commissioned a few boats to help them do it. He felt wrung-out as a washrag, drained of color and emotion and feeling, and wracked with worry. Everywhere he looked, it seemed, had some new problem: his daughter was stirring up trouble in Rifthold and Terrasen, his son was fleeing on the backs of wyverns, Chaol's son was missing, new bursts of powers were sounding from the east, and, perhaps worst of all, Erawan was rising again.

They sifted down the river. It was snowing, and Dorian's breath fogged on the air. He didn't mind ice too much—it was the easiest form of magic for him to attempt, for whatever reason, and it seemed to ease something taut in his muscles.

A few feet away, Calynn was curled up in the corner, a fur blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a thick book in her hands. Of all Dorian's children, Calynn worried him the least—for the time being, anyhow. She alone of his sons and daughters had a good head on her shoulders, more inclined to policy than any of the others, with a vocabulary better than Dorian's at twelve years old and an astonishing head for anything scholarly: mathematics, literature; even science. She hadn't displayed a drop of magic, but she made up for it in other ways—she had trained herself mercilessly from a young age to fence, to play the pianoforte and the violin; to paint and draw and fight.

She was lovely, too—lovely like Dorian's mother had been, with a heart-shaped face and full lips, though none of the vacancy Georgina had had in her expression. Calynn had heterochromatic eyes, one gold and the other silver. It was enough to make boys' own eyes follow her even when they shouldn't.

No, Dorian mused absentmindedly; Calynn would be fine. He'd known it since she was six years old and sat patiently at the table while Syeira paraded like a jeweled peacock and Orion sat back with an alarming lethality for a seven-year-old. Calynn had always been a quiet child, and she had Dorian's habit of holding her tongue—observing without speaking, careful and cautious.

Bevyn, on the other hand, was a nightmare, and oddly attached to Calynn. His seven-year-old head was nestled in her lap now as she read, and she fondly adjusted the blanket to cover his small body. Dorian bit back a smile.

His wife sidled up to him, dressed in fighting leathers. "What are you smirking about?"

"Callie and Bev," Dorian said, nudging his head over to their children in the corner.

She followed his gaze, and Dorian was rewarded with one of her rare, brilliant smiles. She leaned into him, and he automatically wrapped an arm around her waist. "Night and day, those two," she said.

"Maybe that's why they work," he said, tugging her ear affectionately.

She snarled and batted his hand away, and he laughed. "Are you ready to brave Rowan?" she said, suddenly serious.

Dorian sobered. "No. Not even close." He looked down at his hands. "It's hard, sometimes, to see him and not be reminded of—her. I don't know how Aedion and Lysandra manage it."

Manon didn't say anything. Instead, she traced the contours of Dorian's hand carefully, absorbed in his calloused skin.

Neither of them, with all their battle experience and knowledge, saw the hatchet coming.

 _Thwack._

A silver-tipped axe embedded itself in the mast of the ship.

Manon and Dorian whirled in unison, and his heart stopped when he saw who was standing on the riverbank.

Four people. Three of them Dorian recognized, one because he knew his name, the other two because he knew the unspoken heritage in their features.

Manon and Dorian swore, fluently, as one.

"Stop the ship!" Dorian shouted, magicking the wind to carry his voice to Chaol's boat one over.

"What?" Nesryn hollered from their boat.

" _Stop the ship!"_ Dorian said, but he needn't have bothered.

Immediately, the current beneath the boats stilled. The wind died.

The world became a silent cascade of snow.

Manon growled low in her throat, and glanced back at Calynn and Bevyn—an instinctual, primal compulsion to protect her daughter and son.

"Fuck," Dorian hissed. "Are they controlling—"

"Without breaking a sweat," his wife said, amber eyes slitted, sizing up the potential threat.

The boat rocked, and the water swirled beneath them as some invisible, unseen force yanked them forward.

"Someone's changing the current of the river," Calynn said in wonder, appearing by their shoulder.

"The girl," said Manon.

"How can you tell?" Dorian asked, as Bevyn's head of black hair popped up by Dorian's elbow.

"Her hand," Manon said. "She's still using gestures as crutches. See? Her fingers are outstretched, if you look closely."

Bevyn jumped up twice in an attempt to peer over the railing. "I wanna see!" he said.

Dorian's hand landed on his son's shoulder. "Stay down, Bev," he said, with the steely command of a king in his voice. Bevyn quieted, but shot a baleful look at his father.

"Mom, Dad," Calynn said slowly, "are they going to hurt us?"

"I don't know," said Manon tersely, as the boats finally reached the shore, lined up neatly in a row. She shot a worried look at her daughter, but Calynn simply turned around without a word, retrieved her sword from where she'd left it by her book, and returned, sheathing it with a polite, detached expression.

Manon grinned.

Dorian's face smoothed into the authoritarian expression of a king. "Lorcan," he said, a bitter taste in his mouth. "It's been a long time."

"It has," Lorcan replied. "I apologize for throwing my axe at your mast. My aim was a bit off."

"Oh?" Manon said, examining her shiny iron claws.

Bevyn jumped, attempting to hoist himself up to see. Dorian grabbed his son's ear, and Bevyn let out a yelp, squawling until he was set down.

"What is this?" Dorian said, his eyes falling on the girl and boy beside him, both astonishingly striking, the girl with a silver braid and gold-and-blue Ashryver eyes, the boy with a shock of golden hair and pine-green irises. They both had the pointed ears and fangs of Fae. There was another Fae beside them, one Dorian didn't recognize, with cappuccino-colored skin and jarring brown eyes flecked with maroon.

Manon sniffed the air, gaze darting from the girl to the maroon-eyed Fae and back again, and she let out a low, amused chuckle.

It was the blond-haired boy that spoke, and Dorian recognized his stance if only because he had seen it in himself once: the straight-backed posture of a boy king.

"My name is Kasper," the boy said, and gestured to the silver-haired girl beside him. "This is my sister, Leta."

"And what, pray tell," Manon said, "is your last name?"

But Dorian already knew what the answer would be.

"Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius," Leta said. Her voice was lovely; high and clear.

For a moment, there was only silence. And then the fluent riptide of a curse coming from Chaol.

"We were wondering," Leta said, "if you might give us a ride into the city."

Manon and Dorian exchanged glances.

But it was Calynn— _Calynn_ —that took charge.

"Welcome aboard," she said.

—

 **ROWAN**

It was the first time Rowan had ever laid on his bed, and tangled with Aelin in the sheets, he couldn't bring himself to fall asleep, too afraid that he would wake and find that it had all been a blissful, beautiful dream.

Aelin slept on his chest, her slightly-damp hair curling around his neck. She was fast asleep, her breaths coming slowly, evenly. She had a slight crease between her brows when she slept, so faint as to be almost unnoticeable. Rowan held her tighter, tracing the scars on her back. There were so many new ridges there, some of them fresh red welts. Whip marks, almost all of them.

It made his hands still, his fingers clumsy in their strokes.

Aelin had paused in the bath. She'd been so thin, bones protruding from her skin like the wings of a baby bird. She'd crossed her arms over her bare chest, suddenly shy and self-conscious.

"I am…" She'd swallowed. "I have new scars."

Rowan had only pulled her close, fighting back the rage that threatened to swell up. "I am going to find her," he whispered, fierce and hot in her ear. "And when I do, I am going to return every blow that rutting _bitch_ laid on you tenfold."

Aelin closed her eyes and let him take her, again and again, her hands reaching for him just as frantically as his, the bathwater searing away her scars, peeling away an old layer of skin to reveal a fragile, pink one beneath, as if it had been waiting there all along.

Rowan was burning with questions. It was a struggle to let her sleep, even as he never wanted either of them to move a muscle.

She stirred now, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "So impatient," she mumbled, stretching her lithe warrior's body. "Tsk-tsk."

"I'm sorry," Rowan said. "I wasn't aware that sixteen years of patience wasn't enough."

She opened one eye, and she reached a hand up to cup his cheek, running a thumb along his mouth. His breath snagged. "Rowan, there's something I need to tell you."

"Tell me?" he said. "About what?"

"I tried to," she began. "Earlier. But then there was the bath, and—"

"Aelin," he said, sensing her anxiety. He sat up, the blankets falling off his bare chest. "What is it? What do you have to tell me?"

She didn't look at him.

Shit. _Shit._

"Aelin—"

"When Maeve took me… away," Aelin stumbled, words falling out of her mouth rapidly, "I was…"

"You were what?" he said. "Aelin, you were _what_?"

"Pregnant." She clenched the sheets in her hands. "I was pregnant."

His vision went white.

The power from the east…

It had been…

It had really…

"I didn't know," she said tightly. "Not until the morning sickness started. And then Maeve… she found out. And she was pleased."

Rowan didn't say anything. He couldn't think—couldn't process.

"They're alive," she said, gripping his hand so hard he thought his bones might shatter. "They're _alive_ , Rowan."

He had no words… no way to…

But…

"'They'?" he croaked.

"Your son," she said, eyes lined with silver. "And your daughter. Rowan, there's—there's so much I need to tell you. So much that's happened."

"What are their names?" he whispered.

Just then, a knock thundered on the door, furious and rapid. " _Rowan!"_ a familiar voice hollered. _Lysandra._ Aelin straightened, clutching the blanket to her chest. " _Open up! Rowan!"_

Aelin sucked in a sharp breath.

Rowan didn't answer. He couldn't. He had no words.

" _Rowan!"_ Lysandra called. "Dorian's here, and you're _late! Rowan!"_

"Lysandra?" Aelin asked, breaking on the last syllable.

Silence. Dead, horrifying silence.

"Rowan?" Lysandra said, quieter this time.

Aelin jumped off the bed, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. Rowan didn't move a muscle. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

 _You have a son. And a daughter._

 _You have a son._

 _A daughter._

 _A son._

Aelin hurled open the door. A pale Lysandra stood on the other side, hand pressed to her mouth, glistening with tears.

Lysandra screamed, and threw her arms around Aelin, completely disregarding any lack of clothing. Aelin started to cry, and Lysandra drew back, surveying Aelin with an open mouth, eyes wide. "Is this real?" she said. "Are you here? How—what—"

"It's a long story," Aelin said, sniffling. "Long, and complicated." She wiped her eyes. "What was that about Dorian being here—and Rowan being late?"

Lysandra craned her neck to peer around Aelin's shoulder, and spotted Rowan sitting naked on his bed. Her brows rose, gaze flitting back to Aelin. "Dorian and Manon are on their way," she said. "Things have been happening—big things—" She shook her head tearfully. "I still can't believe you're _here._ "

"Well," Aelin said with a wicked gleam in her eye, "if Dorian needs to be greeted by a monarch of Terrasen, greeted by a monarch of Terrasen he will be."

Rowan rose finally from the bed, reaching for his trousers on the floor. He shucked them on, careful to shield his body from Lysandra's view.

He straightened, still shirtless, and came over beside Aelin. His head was still ringing, but there would be time for answers later.

"Let's go," he said.

—

 **DORIAN**

Dorian stared at Leta and Kasper.

The boats had continued their trek upstream, but Dorian and Manon had found a table on the deck of the main ship. It was, Dorian had said, imperative that they all sit the fuck down.

They sat around a table now—Dorian, Manon, Calynn, Chaol, Nesryn, Leta, Kasper, Lorcan, and the maroon-eyed Fae that Dorian had been informed was Vaughan.

"The Vaughan that serves Maeve?" he'd asked.

"That," Kasper said, "would be the one."

"Does he _still_ serve Maeve?"

Leta crossed her arms and leaned against the side of the ship, looking terrifyingly like Rowan. "That," she said tautly, "is immaterial."

"No, it's not," Manon snapped. "Answer the question."

Dorian recoiled. His experience with teenage girls had been limited to an eighteen-year-old Celaena Sardothien, a string of one-night stands, Sorscha, and his daughter, with the incurable tongue that Dorian found himself mentally preparing for now.

It was probably why his marriage with Manon had worked: she'd been about a century older than him.

But Leta didn't snap at them. She observed Manon coolly, taking note of her iron claws and teeth. "I was raised by one of your kind," she said quietly.

Dorian blinked, and even Manon appeared to be startled, if only for a second. "Oh?"

Vaughan had gone white, his entire posture stiffening. His eyes were trained on Leta, and the expression on his face—

"Yes," Leta said coldly. "My memories of her are not particularly fond."

Dorian found himself reevaluating the girl sitting before him. She couldn't have been more than fifteen, but there was something in her face that made her seemed older than she was—a set to her shoulders. The unspoken weight of suffering.

Kasper carried it too.

The boy's eyes slid now to Chaol, standing silently off to the side. He and Nesryn had left their own ship when it became apparent that a mass meeting was necessary. He leaned against the mast now, observing without speaking.

"You're Chaol Westfall, aren't you?" Kasper said now, addressing Dorian's captain baldly. Surprise rippled through the assembled crowd.

Chaol straightened. "I am." He narrowed his eyes. "How did you know?"

"I met your son," Kasper said. "Raiden."

Dorian slammed his fist down on the table. "Hold on," he said, putting a hand up. " _What?"_

Chaol crossed the deck in two strides. "Rai?" he said, voice cracking. "You've seen my son? When? Is he alright? Is he safe?" His words turned desperate. "Why isn't he with you? _Where is he?_ "

Kasper, like Leta, seemed completely unruffled. "He's alive, last I knew," he said. "He went after Maeve with Fenrys."

"He did _what_?" Nesryn said, appalled.

Dorian had the odd sensation of choking on his own spit. "With _Fenrys_? _What?_ "

Manon put her hand up. "Alright," she interrupted. "Everybody back the hell up."

They fell silent, momentarily calmed.

"This is how this is going to work," Manon said. "I am going to ask a question, and one of you"—she gestured to Leta, Lorcan, Kasper, and Vaughan—"are going to answer it. Is that understood? No one will put in any unnecessary commentary. Anyone that has a problem with that can take it up with me." She held up her iron claws, and Leta cringed.

No one said anything, though Chaol's chest continued to rise and fall rapidly.

"Question number one," Manon said. "Is Aelin alive?"

Leta and Kasper exchanged glances, but it was Vaughan that said, "Yes."

Her eyes fell on the maroon-eyed Fae. "Are you still blood-sworn to Maeve?"

"Yes," he answered. Leta's hands balled into fists.

Dorian spoke, ignoring his wife's outraged glare. He could weather it—he'd been dealing with Manon Blackbeak-Crochan for a decade and a half. "Then what the hell are you doing here?"

Vaughan opened his mouth and closed it. "When Maeve captured Aelin sixteen years ago, she was pregnant. Aelin didn't know—no one did. Maeve was pleased… until she found out Aelin was going to have twins." He met their stunned gazes without reprobation. "The kind of power that Leta and Kasper possess is like none I've ever seen. They have more power in their pinky finger than most Fae have in their entire bodies—than three Fae put together. They are more lethal than you, king," Vaughan said, addressing Dorian, "and your wife put together."

"I sincerely doubt that," Manon said.

"Don't," Lorcan said. "Vaughan is telling the truth. I watched Kasper kill nearly a dozen full-blooded, centuries-old Fae in a single second within the first fifteen minutes of having access to his magic."

"How?" Calynn said quietly.

"Lightning," said Lorcan. "He electrocuted them where they stood. And as for Leta…" He smiled wryly. "Well. You'll have to see for yourself sometime."

"Maeve wanted one of the twins as an asset," Vaughan said. "Not both of them. Both of them had the potential to do what no one had managed for a millennium—kill her." He smiled humorlessly. "She imprisoned Aelin and kept her like a dog. Kasper was born first, and the second he was out, they slapped him in Wyrdmarked iron chains. Then she had Leta." He paused. "They took her away while Aelin was still bleeding on the floor."

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind beating faintly at the sails.

"Fenrys saved her," said Kasper hoarsely. "This was while we were still at Doranelle—before the war with Erawan ended. He found an old Ironteeth witch in the mountains, exiled for killing one of her own kin." Manon went rigid. "Fenrys intimidated the witch into keeping her, threatened her life. Made her promise to keep her safe."

"It worked," said Leta softly. "For a while, anyway."

"When Maeve fled to Sollemere," Vaughan said, "Fenrys had no way to get to Leta. He had to hope that she'd grow up safe, far away from Maeve's clutches. Kasper grew up like his mother did. A slave."

Distantly, Dorian remembered another time, not so long ago, and another place: a salt mine, and a bound and broken girl standing tall and proud before him.

How simple everything had been then.

"I ran away from Mohana," Leta said. "And by accident, I found Lorcan in a tavern. He recognized me, though he wasn't sure."

"I had her bring me back to the cabin where she'd been raised," said Lorcan. "I made a… deal with her." He rolled his shoulders back. "The cabin was in ashes when we returned, and the witch was nailed to a board. Maeve was waiting for us. She'd felt a pulse of Leta's power, and she'd wrung the whole bloody story from Fenrys. She came with the intent of killing Leta, or bringing her back to raise as another slave." He shook his head. "Leta sent Maeve running."

"Maeve sent a message to me," Vaughan said. "She ordered me to find Leta and track her back to Terrasen—to enter Rowan's court as a spy. I found them both, and I made an agreement with Lorcan: I'd take Leta to her homeland, and he could track Maeve, like he'd been doing for the past ten years. He was hot on her trail. He needed me to do it." Vaughan's fingers furled and unfurled. "So I did it. I lied to her. I made her trust me. And I got her safely to a port town in Wendlyn, at the edge of the mountains, where we ran right smack into Aelin, Kasper, and Lorcan."

"Your son saved my life," Kasper said to Chaol. "Mine, Fenrys's, and my mother's. We would not be standing here if it weren't for him."

Chaol had gone white as parchment.

"He knew the Wyrdmarks to break our chains," Kasper said. "And I was able to get free. My mother and I could access our magic again—we had a chance in hell against the forty Fae in Sollemere."

"Hold on," Dorian said hoarsely. "That's the second time you've said that. It sounds familiar. Where is it?"

"In a country far to the east of here that no longer exists," Lorcan said. "Maeve sent Whitethorn and I to ransack it a long, long time ago." His gaze went hard and cold. "It was a message."

"I killed," Kasper said, and the words sounded small coming from his mouth—small, and horribly pitiful. "But Maeve and a few of her denizens got away. Cairn included."

Manon barked a curse.

"Fenrys stayed to track Maeve down," Kasper said. "He said that he'd send a message to us when he found her. Raiden went with him."

" _Why?"_ Nesryn said.

"He wanted to prove himself," said Kasper. "He wanted to return with a reason to make you proud."

"Why the fuck was my son in Sollemere in the first place?" Chaol said roughly.

"He went to Wendlyn," Lorcan said. "Instead of… wherever he was supposed to go. Connall and Jacan—two of Maeve's cronies—found him there. They beat him and kidnapped him, and brought him to Sollemere to be offered as ransom."

Nesryn placed a trembling hand over her mouth.

"He wouldn't let them," Kasper said. "He was in the middle of Maeve's throne room, surrounded by forty Fae warriors and a thousand-year-old bitch of a queen, starved and beaten so badly that he couldn't stand, and he looked Maeve right in the eye and told her that she shouldn't offer him as ransom. He said that no one would come for him, but I think he was trying to protect you. All of you."

Chaol swayed on his feet, and Dorian shoved back his chair from his table and steadied him.

And because it was Dorian, and only Dorian— _Dorian,_ who had been Chaol's best friend since the two of them were too young to know what it meant—that Chaol stayed standing.

"He saved us," Kasper said. "All of us. And when he was done, he didn't go crawling home. He wanted vengeance. He stayed with Fenrys."

"He's my son," Chaol whispered. "He's my _son._ He doesn't even know how to hold a _sword._ "

"He's got a centuries-old Fae with him," Lorcan said.

Kasper shot Lorcan a glare. "He's one of the bravest people I've ever met," he said. "He's going to be fine."

"Kasper," Leta said.

"No," Kasper said, and for a second, the air around him seemed to flare brighter. "Trust me. I'm sure."

Chaol's shoulders shook, and Nesryn came over to stand by him. Chaol turned away from Dorian to hold his wife, and the two of the stood together, and Dorian could not help but think they seemed like a puzzle unfinished, lacking a missing piece.

Maybe… Maybe Dorian had misjudged Raiden Westfall. Maybe they all had.

"Where is Aelin now?" Manon said quietly.

"In Orynth," Lorcan answered. "She wanted to surprise people, I don't know. She made us wait in the forest."

Despite everything, Dorian found it in himself to rasp out a dry chuckle. "That sounds like Aelin," he said.

"And you," Manon said, pinning Vaughan with one of her killer dagger-glares. "Why the hell are you here, and why is your scent all over her?" She flicked her gaze over to Leta.

Dorian whipped his head around to stare at Vaughan.

He'd guessed as much from his stare, but…

"Aelin wanted to bring me home to Rowan to have him punish me himself," said Vaughan with a charming smile. "I figured I'd better let her. You know how the saying goes: appease beautiful women even if it means walking over hot coals, and all that drivel."

"All over her?" Dorian said, looking at his wife.

She nodded. "You're either very stupid," she said to Vaughan, "or you're in deeper shit than you can fathom."

"Both," Vaughan said.

Kasper almost tripped over himself. " _Both?"_

Everyone stared at Vaughan, mouths ajar.

Everyone except for Leta.

"What?" she snapped. "What's the big reaction for?"

Dorian tipped up his head to look at the sky. "You motherfucking piece of shit," he said, looking back briefly at Vaughan. "This isn't the kind of thing you joke about."

"Who says I'm joking?" said Vaughan, eyes glinting dangerously. "Perhaps I _wish_ I were joking, king."

"Rowan is going to rip you limb-from-limb," Dorian warned.

"So I've heard," Vaughan snarled. "He can try."

Dorian slid an incredulous look to Lorcan, who shook his head once. "Don't."

Manon opened her mouth, about to argue further, but a high, clear voice interrupted them. Calynn.

"We've arrived," she said, and they all turned, in unison, to meet the towering spires of Orynth.

—

 **AELIN**

Aelin was going to borrow a dress from Lysandra, until she said, "I don't think you'll have to."

Aelin had looked at Lysandra dubiously. "Stunning as I am, I don't think my people want to see me in a bedsheet."

Lysandra peered over Aelin's shoulder to where Rowan sat, buttoning up his doublet before the mirror on the vanity. "Just… look in your closet," she said. "Dorian won't be here for another half an hour—he was seen heading down the river—so you've got a little time."

"Lysandra—" Aelin began, but her old friend was already half-disappearing out the door.

She paused, her hand on the threshold. Her eyes swam with silver tears. "I was beginning to think you would never meet my children," she said.

Aelin's heart twisted.

"You're my best friend," Lysandra said. "And I… I am so, so _lucky_ to have you."

"You're my best friend, too," Aelin said tightly, her throat swollen up.

Lysandra smiled tearfully, and half-exited the door, but she halted one more time. "I can't wait to see Aedion's face," she said, and left, the door shutting with a soft _click_ behind her.

Rowan and Aelin were left alone… just the two of them.

She walked over to him. His doublet was half-buttoned, his shirt collar hanging loose around his neck, exposing a stretch of smooth, muscled skin. Rowan blinked up at her blearily. "I've forgotten how to button," he said.

She sighed and kneeled down, her fingers working at the laces. "Tell me what you're thinking," she said.

"I don't think it can really be expressed in coherent thoughts," Rowan said, half-choking. He put his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

She pried his hands away, kissing him, winding her fingers in his hair. He kissed her back, pulling her close, the sheet falling loose around them.

He pulled back. "Where are they?" he said raggedly.

"They're safe," she said. "Alive. I left them outside the city—I wanted to see you first. I wanted to be given time to… tell you."

He closed his eyes, so close that his lashes brushed against her cheek.

Then, abruptly, he stood up, helping her to her feet. "We need to go meet Dorian," he said, and she could see him filing the information away, compartmentalizing.

"I need to get dressed," Aelin said helplessly. "I don't know what Lysandra was talking about—"

Rowan's shoulders caved. "I do."

She blinked at him. "What?"

He took her hand, and led her over to a door by the right of the bed—a closet door. He put his hand on the knob and stopped, glancing back at her uncertainly. "I couldn't… bear to get rid of them."

"Get rid of what?" said Aelin.

But he didn't answer. He only opened the door.

And she saw.

She stepped inside, careful not to trip on the bedsheet wrapped around her body. Inside the closet were her clothes—rows upon rows of them, all her old dresses and shoes and purses, her jewelry dangling from its stand. Gathering dust, out-of-fashion, but _hers._

The things that had been in her closet in her apartment back in Rifthold.

Near the back was a wooden box. Inside of it, stacked neatly, were Sam's shirts.

She turned back to Rowan. "You… kept all of this?" she whispered.

He bowed his head, a lock of silver falling over his eyes. "Yes."

She brushed her fingers along the sleeves of brocade, the skirts of velvet and silk. And kneeled by Sam's box. There were the shirts and trousers of _her_ Sam, still barely clinging to a ghost of his scent.

She began to weep.

"I'm sorry," Rowan said, but she shook her head, clutching one of Sam's shirts to her chest.

"I l-love y-you," she sobbed, rocking back and forth.

He understood. She could tell, because a moment later, he sat down beside her, and his arms enveloped her, and that smell, that _scent_ that had haunted her for so long…

Pine and snow. Home.

She heaved horrible, ugly sobs, howling for all that she had lost, all that had happened.

 _RhoeEvalinSamNehemia…_

His fingers brushed against her back, and because he was her mate, her husband, her other half of madness and wickedness and brilliance and cunning, he knew exactly what to say.

"We'll have to fix these tattoos of yours," Rowan said, and she let him hold her while she wept.

—

 **VAUGHAN**

Vaughan had seen Terrasen only once, when Maeve sent him to Erilea to search for Lorcan, but he had never seen it like this—prospering, rich, full of life and energy and vitality.

His chest constricted, as if there was a snake wrapped around his ribcage.

He'd wanted to stay there in the woods forever, sleeping by her side. He wanted to listen to her talk about the stars and watch her look at him without fear or judgment or anything but simple, easy acceptance.

He wanted to hold her. He wanted to tell her the things he hadn't, the thoughts he'd buried deep and far because he'd been afraid, but he couldn't.

The boat of Havilliards and Crochans had reached the dock, and the castle stood before them, proud and tall and stony and full of unspoken promise.

Manon sent him a filthy look, but Vaughan didn't care. He hardly noticed the inquisitive, disdainful glances the king sent him, or the curious, probing eyes of their children.

He was staring at Leta, because he knew—he _knew_ —that it would be the last time he saw her for a long while.

She noticed him. "Stop staring at me," she said out of the corner of her mouth.

The king and queen mounted horses, their children getting on beside them, and so did the captain and his wife, and their sizeable entourage of guards and servants. Three horses were procured for Leta, Kasper, Lorcan, and Vaughan.

He didn't have time to reply: Kasper came over and helped Leta onto the saddle, despite her protests, and swung up his leg after her. Lorcan mounted his own stallion, and reluctantly, Vaughan followed suit.

Vaughan sent her a message without using words, just looking at her. _You know why I'm staring at you._

She hissed through her teeth. _I don't care. Stop._

Dorian watched the two of them, and Vaughan caught what appeared to be a mixture of recognition and dawning horror.

"Shit," he said, probably intended for only Manon's ears, but Vaughan was Fae. "Shit, shit, _shit._ "

"Say it one more time," Manon said without inflection. "I'm sure that'll get the point across."

"They are, aren't they?" he demanded. "Can't you… smell that kind of thing?"

"No," Manon replied. "I can't."

Chaol rode up to both of them. He was haggard—he yet hadn't recovered from the news about his son. "We need to go," he said. "Now."

Dorian nodded once tautly. He knew, Vaughan thought, that Aelin was almost certainly at the castle. Vaughan didn't know how Dorian felt about that.

They took off, pounding down the cobblestoned streets. People came out of their cottages to look at them, peering at the passing procession of royalty. Kasper and Leta were concealed in the middle, their hoods over their heads.

Snow fell, coating the pathways in a blanket of ice. Vaughan's mount reared, and he gripped the reins tighter. It had been nearly three decades since he'd last ridden—he far preferred flying.

He wished Chaol, Nesryn, Dorian, and Manon would stop glaring at him. The combined power of their glowers made him want to sink into the ground.

After what seemed an eternity, they took a right, and ascended a steep hill to the castle. He'd seen many castles in his lifetime, but this one easily ranked as one of the most magnificent—a massive heap of marble and alabaster and basalt, with diamond-paned windows stained silver and green, all decked with wreaths. Holly plants and naked rose bushes curled around the corners, the skeletal outlines of vines sketched against curling towers.

Vaughan glanced over at Leta. Her mouth was parted, her eyes round as saucers.

They rode up to the front gate. Chaol was the first to dismount, Manon, Dorian, and Nesryn following his lead swiftly. Dorian walked over to where his seven-year-old son sat, perched on the edge of a horse, and helped him down. His son tugged at the edge of his father's cloak, peering up with those unsettling golden eyes.

Dorian knelt, ruffling Bevyn's hair affectionately, as Calynn slipped off her horse. To the right of them, Kasper did the same.

Leta looked panickedly at the saddle, then the horse, and then the ground. Vaughan's pity won out.

He slid off his mount, walking over to Leta, crossing the ground in three swift strides. (There were pros to being well over six feet tall.)

She scowled at him. "I can get down just fine by myself."

"I hate to break this to you, love," he said, "but you most certainly cannot. With practice, perhaps. At this juncture? No."

Her frown turned fierce, and she attempted to swing a leg over. Instead, she conked the horse in the head, sending it skittering away, and would've fallen to the ground in a heap had Vaughan not reached out and caught her, his arms catching the soft bone and muscle just above her ribcage.

She sucked in a lungful of air, and he let her down, slowly, but didn't remove his hands.

"There," he said, a bit winded—though somehow Vaughan doubted it was because of any physical strain.

They were close—so close that he could feel her body heat coming off in waves. She didn't make a move to alter their position, and neither did he.

His gaze fell on her lips, and she let out a shuddering sigh.

Strong hands shoved Vaughan backward. Lorcan.

"Don't be an idiot," Lorcan hissed, storming away.

Vaughan raked a hand through his hair, wrenched back to reality. People were staring at the both of them: Dorian's jaw had lowered a full two inches, and Manon's eyebrows had risen so high that they brushed the fringe of her ivory hair. Kasper was shaking his head and muttering something even Vaughan couldn't make out under his breath.

 _Shit._

She was going to be the end of him.

"I think," Nesryn said suddenly, "that we should get inside."

"Good idea," Dorian said.

And it was then that the doors to the palace opened.

A steward waited at the doors, and instinctively, without even knowing why he did it, Vaughan stepped in front of Leta to shield her, his hand brushing against her arm.

"Your Majesties," the steward said, bowing deeply. "If I might—"

"Lead the way," Dorian said, gesturing ahead of himself tiredly.

—

 **KASPER**

They walked down a series of corridors, each more magnificent than the last. The castle was a living ice sculpture, snow falling from the ceiling, frost creeping across windows, sculptures hidden behind corners, icicles hovering in midair.

Leta watched it all with an open mouth, and beside her, Kasper mirrored her expression exactly—the prince and princess of Terrasen, son and daughter of the most powerful Fae in the world. Descendants of the fire-breathing bitch-queen and her mate of pine and snow.

Kasper couldn't believe it.

The steward hadn't really glanced at them—he hadn't seen Leta or Kasper yet, still covered by their hoods. But that was only a matter of time.

Finally, their party came to a stop before a set of enormous icy doors, towering nearly ten feet tall. The steward hesitated, glancing back, before pushing them open.

Inside was the most incredible throne room that Kasper had ever seen—a floor made of silver, a ceiling stretching up hundreds of feet, a wall made entirely out of holly, another of poinsettias. There was a living forest in the room, pine trees jutting up from the floor, and a pond nestled in the corner. Nobles cloaked in furs and wrapped in blankets milled about, sitting on benches and chairs spread through the room, holding chalices of spiced wine.

At the back of the room were two stag thrones, but they were empty.

Before the thrones stood a striking, black-haired, green-eyed woman arguing with a demi-Fae with a shock of tawny hair and blue-and-gold eyes.

Heads swiveled, in unison, to look at Dorian and Manon and the rest of their entourage. Kasper heard a swift intake of breath from the corner, and saw a boy a few years his junior with white hair, bright blue eyes, and iron teeth and claws back away, as if in terror.

Kasper scanned the crowd, and stopped short.

There—in the corner. A girl.

He could see her more clearly now. Hair like ebony silk tumbled down her back, and her amber eyes were sharp and mistrustful. Her lips were lovely and curved, flush with scarlet. She wore a low-cut red dress that drew his eyes to her narrow, sloped waist, and a golden circlet atop her head.

"Syeira," Kasper whispered.

Manon whipped her head around. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, but he saw Leta, Dorian, and Lorcan all looking at him strangely.

"You said 'Syeira,'" said Manon. "How do you know my daughter's name?"

"I don't," said Kasper quickly, even as he reveled at the simple word. _Daughter._ So Raiden had been telling the truth—Syeira was a princess, just as he was a prince.

"Liar," Dorian said quietly.

Kasper blinked, backing away. "What—"

"I can taste lies," he replied. "And you, Kasper Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius, are lying."

Kasper was saved from responding by a roar from the back of the room.

" _What?"_

Demi-Fae could hear just as well as pure-blooded Fae—a fact that Dorian seemed to have forgotten.

The demi-Fae stalked toward them, pyrite hair gleaming in the silvery snow. He was enormous, almost as large as Lorcan and Vaughan, muscled and corded with power. A fur cape rippled as he walked, a massive sword pinned to his side.

"Aedion," said Dorian reluctantly. "Hearing's as sharp as ever?"

Kasper jumped. "Wait," he said, unable to stop himself. " _You're_ Aedion? Aedion Ashryver?"

Aedion's eyes fell on him, and all the blood drained from his face. He let loose a curse that had not one or two but _three_ goblets clattering to the floor in shock behind him. "Holy burning hell," he said hoarsely.

The green-eyed woman pushed past him, and whitened. "Oh, gods," she whispered. "Oh, _gods._ "

"Kasper," Dorian said, "and Leta, pull down your hoods."

Aedion and the woman both stiffened with shock as Leta stepped forward, removing her cowl. The assembly of nobles gasped as one as her silver hair fell loose, her blue-gold eyes—the exact same shade and shape as Aedion's—carefully blank.

Over in the corner, Syeira barked out a curse and hoisted her skirts up, sprinting across the throne room in a decidedly unladylike fashion. Kasper's heart jumped into his throat.

Aedion took a step back, and spotted Vaughan, arms crossed over his bulky chest, and Lorcan, who seemed to be scanning the room for someone.

"What," Aedion said, "the _hell is going on?_ "

"My name is Kasper Samuel Rhoe Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius," Kasper said, rattling the names off in quick succession. He didn't so much as glance at Syeira. "And this is my sister, Leta Lyria Evalin Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius." Kasper's eyes gleamed. "We are the heirs to Terrasen."

Someone slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

And that was when a voice said dryly from back of the throne room, "Well. You've certainly stolen _my_ thunder."

Aedion whirled, eyes wide.

Lounging on the throne in a splendor of green silk, her crown of emeralds and silver set atop her head at a jaunty angle, was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.

And beside her was Kasper's father.

—

 **ROWAN**

There was a door in the back of the throne room, connected through a secret passageway leading to his chambers. Rowan had thought nothing of using it—had relished the look on the simpering nobles' faces when they saw their queen, even as a part of him panicked over what Aelin had told him.

But when they'd reached the hallway connecting to the door, Aelin had stopped, sniffing. And growled. "I shouldn't even be surprised," she said darkly, and stormed past, leaving no time for Rowan to scent what she had caught.

The throne room hadn't been looking at them. No: they'd been entirely focused on a party at the back of the room.

Aelin stopped stock-still, joy lighting up her face. " _Aedion,"_ she said.

But he didn't hear her. They were too absorbed in staring at the two Fae standing near the doors, beside—of all people—Lorcan Salvaterre, Vaughan Zamil, Dorian Havilliard, Manon Crochan, the Crochan-Havilliard children, and Chaol and Nesryn Westfall.

Before them were Aedion and Lysandra, rigid with shock.

Rowan halted.

The two Fae…

A male. A male with golden hair and green eyes that Rowan saw every day in the mirror, and a cocky, reckless confidence that radiated from his mate standing beside him. And a female…

A female that looked so much like him that it knocked the wind out of him.

Once, Rowan had had a mother—a female he remembered only hazily; a Whitethorn warrior with the title he had inherited. They had called her the Princess of Doranelle; a female with pewter hair and cheekbones sharp as the Staghorns, scarred and tanned skin that spoke of battle and beatings.

She looked like him. And she looked like his mother.

He heard them say their names. The first hit him like a stone to his chest.

 _Kasper Samuel Rhoe Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius._

The second hit him like a boulder.

 _Leta Lyria Evalin Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius._

He could feel the magic rippling off them in shockwaves that slammed the walls, made his ribcage tremble.

His children. His daughter. His son.

"Well," said Aelin dryly. Only Rowan could sense her anxiety; the way her fingers trembled slightly. "You've certainly stolen _my_ thunder."

Aedion and about a hundred other different barons and baronesses spun around in unison.

Aedion's face went slack.

And then he was running.

He sprinted across the floor, and Aelin sprinted back, two sides of the same coin, colliding with a peal of laughter and a muffled _oomph._ Aelin shrieked as he lifted her into the air, spinning her around twice, whooping and sobbing simultaneously.

"You're okay," Aedion said, holding her face between her hands. "You're alright—you're safe? You're _here_?"

"I'm here," Aelin said, smiling so widely that her grin split her face and made some long-forgotten ember ignite in Rowan's chest. "I'm _here._ "

Lysandra sauntered over to both of them. "I knew that Aelin was here," she said, inciting a choked " _What"_ from Aedion. "But I wasn't aware that you brought two children along with you. Or that you had children at all."

The throne room went dead silent.

Rowan took a step down from the raised dais of the throne. He strode leisurely, affecting a calm he didn't feel, winds sweeping around his feet. He was sure he must have made a picture—the Fae king of Terrasen meeting his children for the first time, face cold and hard as stone, eyes raw and shredded.

The party near the back of the room parted for him like the curtain peeling back for second act of a play.

They were fifteen, Rowan thought, doing the math in his head. Almost sixteen. Young and so very, very scarred.

Kasper's throat skittered. "Dad?" he said.

Leta didn't say a word. She gazed at him opaquely, expression unmovable as Rowan's.

Without warning, Rowan swept them up in an embrace.

They stiffened momentarily before relaxing as he pulled them tight. He withdrew, his cheeks damp, and it was Leta, not Kasper, that threw her arms around his neck and cried.

Kasper stumbled back, surprised, but Leta clung to Rowan's neck, and though she didn't know him, and he didn't know her, he held her, as he might have when she was little and small and afraid.

Rowan thought of all the empty, lonely nights that he had spent gazing at the stars, wondering if somewhere, someone was doing the same.

"I've got you," Rowan said, holding her as heaving sobs wracked her skeletal girl's frame. "Shh. I've got you." His voice tightened. "I'm here now. I've got you."

She cried and cried, and Aelin came up beside Rowan, features frozen in shock. Clearly she had not been anticipating this.

Rowan just held his daughter as she buried her face in his chest, wetting his expensive doublet with snot and salty tears.

And then he caught the scent.

It rose off her thickly, clogging his nostrils. A hazy red banner of rage swam before his vision.

"You," he hissed, looking directly at Vaughan Zamil.

One of the last remaining members of Maeve's cadre—his enemy. His bloodsworn partner that had not paused to help Aelin in the battle at Mistward, who was known for ruthlessness and lack of feeling and _lies._

Zamil's scent was _all. Over. Her._

"Took you long enough," Zamil replied.

—

 **VAUGHAN**

Vaughan knew he had a death wish, baiting Whitethorn now.

But gods help him, everyone had been goading him for days about how Whitethorn was going to kill him for so much as looking at Leta; how he would cut Vaughan into tiny little pieces and feed him to Whitethorn's gods-damned golden retriever.

Let them. Vaughan would fight back. _He would fight for her._

"Bastard," Rowan breathed. " _Bastard."_

He gave Rowan a cocky smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "That's a low-slung insult," he remarked. "But then, you always were an antiquated one, weren't you?"

Leta detached herself from her father, and Vaughan's heart yanked painfully at her bloodshot eyes and blotchy cheeks. "Vaughan," she said. "Stop it."

"Oh, shit," Aedion muttered.

"No can do, love," said Vaughan.

He didn't even see the fist coming.

Rowan's knuckles collided with the side of his face with a sickening _crunch._ Vaughan staggered backwards, popping his jaw. For the second time in two days, a Whitethorn had drawn blood from his mouth.

Vaughan grinned at Whitethorn. "Why," he said, "you abominable dick."

He launched himself at him. He had the advantage of surprise: Rowan didn't even see him as Vaughan slammed his hand into his gut, jamming his throat.

" _Prick,"_ Rowan snarled, and a gust of wind shot Vaughan back hard enough that he collided with the ice doors with enough force to make them shatter. Someone screamed.

Vaughan shoved himself up and spat blood onto the ground. "Is that the best you can do? 'Prick'?" He clucked his tongue. "Clearly your teachers have been remiss in your education."

Rowan raised a hand, ready to volley another wind at him, but Vaughan just laughed and reached for the gift lying dormant in his chest.

The ground split apart, and the floor beneath Rowan's feet shot up ten feet into the air, protruding from the ground in a makeshift mountain.

Rowan wasn't fazed: there was a flash of light as he shifted into his hawk form, and another as he toppled from a height of fifteen feet, rolling into a crouch.

"You're _dead_ ," he growled.

"You'll have to get close enough to kill me first," Vaughan replied, and with the sheer power of his mind, sliced the wall of holly in two.

He knew how to wield soil and plants; living things. He knew flowers and leaves and trees and dirt, knew the secrets of the below.

The holly branches writhed out, a snake crawling across the floor. People screamed and ducked out of the way as the branch shot right for Rowan, circling around his waist in a chokehold.

It barely lasted a second before Rowan sucked the air from its leaves, withering the vine into a heap of wilted, crumpled leaves.

Vaughan found himself yanked upwards fifty feet into the air and dropped, suddenly released. He shifted mid-plummet, wings stretching out, and let out an ear-splitting caw as he sent another jagged spike of earth right for Rowan.

The various immortals and gifted royals had had enough. It was apparently time to intervene.

Dorian roared, and a fury of ice whipped through the room. The nobles shrieked, flattening themselves to the ground, but it didn't faze Rowan or Vaughan. Neither did the spray of fire Aelin sent for Vaughan; he simply dove out of the way, twisting and turning.

He felt elated, empowered. _Fuck_ Whitethorn. _Fuck him._

Until Vaughan felt the air choked from his lungs, deprived of his throat.

He gasped, shifting in mid-air and falling, plummeting, scrabbling at his chest. Stars danced before his eyes. He couldn't _breathe_ ; was deprived of air and light and was falling, falling, tumbling down from the ceiling…

Maybe it was best this way. Maybe it was best that he be ended quickly.

But someone else, it seemed, had other plans.

" _Enough!"_ a voice hollered, and the throne room fell silent under the pure command in its tone—save for Vaughan and Rowan, still engrossed in their life-and-death battle.

Oil seeped into the corners of Vaughan's vision. This was it—this was the end—the ground grew nearer and near, closer…

Rowan released Vaughan just in time, cushioning his blow enough that he survived his collision with the floor. He wheezed, coughing up blood and clutching the floor, chest heaving.

Whitethorn blasted him up on his feet with a cold fury of wind, pinning him to the wall. He withdrew a dagger, aiming to throw exactly for Vaughan's throat—

So this, Vaughan thought, was how he would end. This was how he would die.

" _No!"_ someone screamed.

" _Leta!"_ Kasper shouted.

And then she was there, standing before the knife hurtling through the air, in-between her father and Vaughan, unflinching against Rowan's wrath.

For the first time since entering the throne room, Vaughan felt terror—real, all-consuming terror— _wreck_ him as the knife came right for her, and he _howled._

Several things happened at once.

The knife stopped an inch from Leta's chest, dropping to the floor. Cries sounded, reaching a fever pitch.

And silver fire sliced through the room.

It was brief, but for a moment, it flashed through the whole throne room, a fury of adamant and magnesium.

It was all Vaughan could see, until in a flash, as quickly as it appeared, it was sucked back to its source.

Leta stood before Vaughan, wreathed in her fire. The entire throne room was frozen over—a layer of translucent ice coated everything save for the people, including the antler throne.

Vaughan felt chilled to his bones.

Rowan stared at Leta, ashen, and the rest of them followed suit. Manon's fangs and claws were out, and she and Dorian were shielding their children, Syeira, Dorian, Calynn, and Bevyn behind them. Dorian's jaw was lowered a solid inch and a half.

Kasper stood in front of Syeira. She was staring, opening and closing her mouth, and Kasper looked pale and resolute.

Aedion was cursing fluently, Lysandra clutched against his side, their own children behind them. Lysandra had her arms wrapped around her daughter, their son gaping unabashedly.

Aelin pressed a quivering hand to her mouth.

"That," Leta said, chest heaving, "is _enough._ "

A single sound sliced through the silence. Lorcan.

Lorcan, who was _laughing._

"Look," he said, "at what you've done."

And Vaughan knew, somehow, that he was talking not about Vaughan or Leta, but Aelin and Rowan.

—

 **LETA**

Twenty minutes later, a slate had been wiped clean.

The throne room had been emptied. Aelin had sent a layer of flame over the ice to melt it, and servants had been sent to mop up Leta's mess. Realizations had sunk in, terrified glances had been sent her way. Vaughan had been escorted to the dungeons personally and slapped into iron chains.

Eleven people had filed into a meeting room: Lorcan, Kasper, Leta, Aelin, Rowan, Aedion, Lysandra, King Dorian, Queen Manon, Captain Westfall, and Nesryn Westfall. The table was cramped.

It was there that Kasper, Lorcan, and Aelin had told their stories all over again, from start to finish, a summation of everything that had happened to them and the bare bones of what had happened to Leta. It was there that the others had done the same, explaining how during the war, Erawan had managed to regain one of the keys and gone into hiding, and Lysandra had ceased her playacting of Aelin; diverging the details the new attacks on the castle, the gifts of Dorian and Manon's eldest daughter, Syeira—which seemed a shock to her parents—and the strange visions of a snake that Syeira had had.

Kasper had stiffened at this, but Leta hadn't dared to probe. She'd had enough for one day.

At the end of everything, when people that Leta barely knew and complete strangers had been reunited, when tears had been shed and decisions made, the skeleton of a plan formed.

Everyone would remain in Orynth for the time being. Word would spread that Aelin was back in Terrasen, and in two weeks' time, she would hold her coronation. Kasper would officially be declared the prince heir of Terrasen, having been born before his sister, and Leta the princess. They'd be assigned tutors, official duties, and her father and mother would begin teaching their children how to control their power.

Vaughan would remain in the dungeons. A prisoner—but alive.

She'd take it for now.

Bits and pieces of the conversations ebbed through her mind like so much water, and when someone finally took pity on her, a maid escorted her up several flights of stairs, to a room grander than Leta had imagined. She was too tired to even soak it in—she fell on the plush, satin bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

She didn't want this. She didn't want a crown, or duties, or responsibilities, or a country.

She'd wanted nothing more than to move to Varese and become a flower girl, forgetting that she had ever been extraordinary at all.

Most of all, she wanted to purge the stain Vaughan had left on her withered, feeble heart.

—

 **SYEIRA**

It had been two weeks since Aelin Ashryver Galathynius had shown up in the throne room of Orynth, and in those two weeks, life had altered forever.

Syeira was no longer a ranking priority, and she didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Her mother and father had chewed her out for hours about her treatment of others since arriving in Terrasen, and ultimately they had agreed that Rowan's punishment was sufficient. Syeira would continue to train with the healers all day—no longer would her hours be filled with frivolous horse rides and court chatter. She would work and sweat and wreck her lovely, fragile hands.

Syeira didn't mind the work so much. She could feel the power to heal swimming beneath her skin, and though the healers hadn't let her near anyone yet, Syeira had intentions of taking her training far enough to do so. For once in her life, she felt useful. Not a queen, perhaps, but still. It was something.

Her father had come to visit her one day, and she'd found him waiting in the doorway, staring at her with an unreadable expression. Her father had never been easy to read, at least not for Syeira. The only people she knew that managed it successfully were Chaol and her mother.

"You look like her," he'd said, and Syeira had known. _Sorscha._

"I want to go to Torre Cesme," she'd told her parents about a week after her arrival. "Not without guards," she added hastily. "But I want to train properly, in a real academy. I want to learn how to use the kind of magic that I've got."

It had been a battle, but eventually she and her parents had reached a rocky agreement: if, in three months, no more attacks had been made by Erawan or Maeve, she could travel south and train at the academy of healers in Antica. Syeira prayed every night to whatever gods still deigned to laugh at her that it would be so.

For the most part, Syeira stayed out of the way from the newfound royals. From the glimpses she had at dinners or court sessions, the Queen of Terrasen had an acid tongue, even more dangerous than Syeira's, though not so liberally spat. And she was powerful—such power that Syeira could barely believe it. She was Rowan's equal, perhaps even his better.

And their children.

Their _children._

Syeira couldn't figure either of them out. Gods in heaven.

It was the girl that terrified her most. _Leta_ : a year older than Syeira, Raiden's age. Tall and willowy, with those piercing Ashryver eyes and hair of Whitethorn silver. Stunning, if thin—the kind of thin that came from starvation, not choice.

Her skin was wind-burned and browned from hours in the sun, and flecked with horrible scars. Syeira had seen them up close a few times, and she'd had to wonder what kind of torture Leta had endured to get them.

Her brother had just as many scars, and he was perhaps even more unsettling, if not… scary, per se.

It didn't help that he was likely the most beautiful boy she'd ever seen.

When Syeira had been a little girl, she'd dreamed of princes that looked like him. Chiseled jaw, silky golden curls, and green eyes. He was charismatic in a way that Leta wasn't, and after his first week at the palace, he'd attracted a web of girls that hung on his every word, giggling and trailing in his wake.

At least he was lucky in love. His sister was not so fortunate.

Syeira had seen the way that Leta had jumped in front of Vaughan Zamil, as if she hadn't even given it a second thought. Much as it pained her to admit it, Syeira wasn't sure if she could have done that even for Rai. And the way Vaughan had looked at Leta…

Syeira pitied the two of them. Leta and Kasper had both been watched like a hawk, and their days were strictly scheduled: up at dawn, training for two hours, tutoring for another four, then protocol and current events until dinner. Neither of them complained. Kasper seemed to revel in it, glad for the practice and instruction. Leta was quiet. She picked at her food at dinner, barely touching a crumb.

One day, about a week and a half after the arrival of the royals at Terrasen, Syeira had skipped a day at the infirmary and gone to watch Leta and Kasper practice.

Chaol trained them both in military arts—he said he had a favor to pay to Kasper and Aelin for what they'd done for Raiden. Syeira was inclined to agree. She'd wanted to thank Kasper, but she hadn't found a good time to approach him, between his harem at dinner and the fact that he seemed to be avoiding her. She'd gone to the library the other day to retrieve a book for the head healer and seen him reading at a table, scribbling something down on a sheet of paper. When he'd glanced up and noticed her, he'd virtually sprinted away like a startled deer in the forest.

The Galathynius children started out every morning running laps with the soldiers around the track. Neither Kasper nor Leta would be fazed by human speeds, so they added difficulty. Each had to carry several hundred pounds of weight on their back, and each had to do four laps in the time that the regular soldiers did one.

Despite the winter chill, Kasper ran shirtless. A group of girls hovered by the periphery every day to watch him sprint, weight slung over his back as if it were nothing.

He was not perfect, Syeira noticed, watching him. She was huddled a far distance away from the giggling girls, who watched her with slitted eyes. They hated her for so many things—her treatment of their king, her own beauty. She was wrapped in a fur cloak, wearing a low-cut dress that exposed her sizeable swell of decolletage.

She told herself it had nothing to do with Kasper's lovely face.

But while his nose and mouth and emerald eyes might be flawless, his back was not. His muscles were sculpted and tailored, and she had difficulty averting her gaze from his chest, but his back…

Whip marks. So, so many.

Syeira had never seen scars like his. Red welts, many of them fresher than they should be, though some of them were silver scars. She couldn't imagine anyone whipping a little boy, especially with Fae strength. There were the scars of shackles around his wrist, the scars of a collar around his neck. So many scars, some of them over his legs. Everywhere.

Kasper had his own demons, well-liked as he might be already. Golden prince or not, Syeira was no fool. He ran shirtless to make a point.

She respected him for it—and envied him. He was stronger than she could ever hope to be.

Leta, meanwhile, made Syeira's blood boil. The girl didn't even _sweat._ She didn't seem bothered by the weight on her back or the increased pace. Her hair was pinned neatly into a swinging braid every morning, not a tendril out of place. She never even seemed to show emotion; Syeira had never seen her so much as react to anything at court save for the first day Leta had wept and stepped in front of a knife for a traitor.

Syeira couldn't get a finger on Kasper, but Leta was even harder. Syeira had heard rumors of the girl's heritage—she'd been the slave of an Ironteeth witch for most of her life; she'd fought off Maeve herself. Both seemed equally ludicrous, and yet…

And yet.

Syeira watched them train with weapons, too. Chaol gave them instructions, and even Syeira, with an unpracticed eye (much to her mother's lament), could tell that they were naturals. Kasper sparred often with Aedion Ashryver, gravitating naturally toward a sword. Leta, meanwhile, preferred a bow.

They learned everything, but they had their weapon.

But the most terrifying of all was watching them train with magic.

The twins had an entire field emptied for their use for about two hours every day. In those two hours, the king and queen made their appearance.

Syeira suspected that they would have trained their children in every aspect, but the kingdom was in an uproar. There were too many fires to be put out (literally and figuratively) for them to teach their children what others could.

But magic?

There, it seemed, the monarchs drew the line.

The simpering, sycophantic girls were not the only one that came to watch them use their magic. Syeira's mother and father did almost every day, as well as her siblings. Aedion and Lysandra hovered in the periphery with their children, along with Chaol and Nesryn, and Lorcan Salvaterre, who seemed to constantly be in a foul mood.

Syeira would've thought he'd go looking for Elide, but she'd been ill the day they'd stormed the throne room, and Lorcan seemed to be avoiding Elide—something that puzzled Syeira to no end. But then again, it wasn't her business, much as she might want to pry.

Other lords and ladies flocked to the sides. It was a show of power more than anything else.

Syeira had no doubt that Erawan was shaking in his boots. She certainly was.

Kasper had control over fire and wind—and lightning. Syeira had seen him call it down that day, aiming it in bursts at the straw dummies quivering in the wind.

Kasper went pale when he aimed his lightning at the hay statues, and when he finished, he shook all over, nerves wrecked. Syeira suspected it was not from physical but mental exertion. She knew enough about both to tell the difference.

She wondered if he had killed before with that lightning.

Leta's gift was worse. So, so much worse.

Hers was a silver fire. Fire and water and wind, though the last was far weaker than her father's and Kasper's. She seemed to personify darkness, shadow to her brother's sun.

Her eyes frightened Syeira. Aelin and Aedion's Ashryver irises burned with brightness, perhaps too bright for the world, but Leta's…

They sucked light in. They were a vacuum, not a beacon.

Leta unleashed her silver fire, and it created a deadly frost. It withered ancient trees to their roots, crumbling every bit of grass and weed in her way. She always kept it away from any of the spectators or her mother or father, but Syeira shuddered to think of what that fire would do to a human being.

For while Kasper drew admirers like moths to his brilliant, resplendent gold, Leta repelled them. Her beauty was a very different sort than any Syeira had encountered. She was not traditionally pretty but instead unsettling, unnerving. Syeira, who had studied the art of charms and beauty since she was five years old, had learned what it was that made someone truly beautiful—physically, at least.

One striking feature. _One._ The rest could be magnificent, but you needed one striking, unusual feature to make beauty.

For Aelin, it was her eyes; for Rowan, his hair and tattoos. For Kasper, it was his smile—so rare, but the few times Syeira had caught it across the room (slightly lopsided, with a chip on his right canine), it had struck her chest like a blow.

No wonder those girls gazed at him so.

But Leta—her every feature was disconcerting. She was ethereal, one of those Fae that made Syeira acutely aware that while they might wear a human's face, they were not human at all. Not even close.

People avoided Leta even more than they avoided Syeira, though even Syeira had to admit begrudgingly that the princess had done nothing to deserve it save for protect someone. People feared Leta on a level they didn't fear Kasper. She was a wild card. Lightning and whip marks, they could understand.

But Leta?

After that first day, Syeira found herself coming back to watch them, again and again. Sometimes only for a few minutes, sometimes for hours.

That was what real power looked like. Kasper would make a fine king one day.

The preparations for Aelin's coronation ball were expansive and rushed. The kingdom seemed determined to pay their queen back for her blood in jewels and coronets, and while no one had any illusions—nothing and no one could ever give Aelin, Rowan, or their children back the years that they had lost—Aelin was inclined to let them try. Syeira couldn't blame her.

She didn't find a time to talk to Kasper, not that it would matter anyway. In a few months' time, she'd be on her way to Torre Cesme, and leave her land of black mountains behind.

—

 **LETA**

The day before the coronation ball, a new Fae arrived at the castle.

His name was Gavriel, and Leta knew him on sight, if only for his remarkable resemblance to Aedion Ashryver. Less apparent than Aedion's resemblance to Aelin, but still undeniable, especially when they stood side-by-side.

Leta had heard more stories in the past two weeks than she had heard in fifteen years. She knew that Gavriel had been one of the Fae searching for her. She knew that Gavriel had inked the ancient tattoos onto Rowan and Aelin before they were ruined by the crack of a whip.

Rowan re-inked those tattoos over Aelin's flesh. Leta knew, because the next day, Aelin came to breakfast in a dress without a back (one of the many, _many_ new articles of clothing that Aelin had ordered), with her tattoos for everyone to see.

Leta hadn't been able to read them, and she hadn't had the energy to ask.

She didn't have energy for much of anything these days. The hours passed in a blur, and the only time she felt release was when she threw herself into her magic. Even then, it had to be controlled, carefully managed. She couldn't unleash her withering over the plains of Terrasen as she so dearly longed to do.

She missed Vaughan so much that she ached with it, but there were too many probing eyes to watch her.

The night that Gavriel arrived in Terrasen, resplendent in armor and thinly-veiled lethality— _the lion,_ they called him—she knocked on his door.

It was the middle of the night, when the sky outside was covered in a blanket of shadows and darkness. Gavriel opened the door, a candle in his hand, in his dressing robe. He yawned, and his eyes widened when he saw her standing there.

She was in her dressing robe, too. But when she removed it, she didn't come for the kind of release she sought from Vaughan.

"I want you to give me a tattoo," she said.

Gavriel hesitated for a moment before nodding.

She did not have him ink words onto her skin, because words were the last thing she wanted. Instead, she gave him a pattern of stars.

In the morning, Leta woke in her own bed. She'd fallen asleep on the table, despite the pain of the embedded salt that Gavriel had used to keep her wounds from closing.

But she had removed her bandage and turned around, revealing raw, sensitive skin.

It was the morning of the coronation ball, and she had the Stag of Terrasen on her back—a constellation. A reminder.

A promise.

The scent of smoke and cloves she would never be able to forget.

—

 **SYEIRA**

Her parents had allowed her to attend the coronation.

Syeira picked her clothing carefully: a dress of deepest carmine trimmed with gold. A ruby pendant dangled from her neck, and her earrings were pierced with garnets. She twisted her hair up into a cascade of sable curls, and marked her lips with scarlet, lining her eyes with kohl.

She was gorgeous, and she knew it. Gone was the frizzy-haired girl from the infirmary that had settled into her skin so briefly: Syeira, heir to the Crochan Kingdom, was back.

She had never seen the ballroom before, and when she entered, perhaps half an hour late for the festivities, she couldn't keep her mouth from dropping.

It was lined with twelve massive windows, each with a pattern of diamond glass stained green and silver. The floor was made of marble tiles shot with veins of green, carpeted in some areas and smooth, slick tile in others. Silver wall sconces branched off of the stone walls, casting the ballroom into flickering light.

The ballroom had at least five hundred people, packed and brimming. Syeira spotted her father and mother, graceful and deadly as they danced. Aedion spun Lysandra around the room, and nearby, Chaol and Nesryn swayed, Nesryn's head on Chaol's chest. Theirs was a sadder waltz, haunted by their son's ghost.

In the middle of the dancing were Aelin and Rowan.

They stole Syeira's breath away. Never had she seen someone dance as they did—with the prowling of warriors and languidity of Fae, limber and willowy and liquid-smooth. Their problems were far from over, but as she watched Rowan hoist the Queen of Terrasen into the air, her crown set perfectly atop her curls, they were forgotten. At least for now.

Leta stood over to the side. She seemed a phantom in a silver-white dress, gossamer and without a corset. Her hair fell down her back freely. She wore very little jewelry; only a silver choker around her neck, and a simple, plain sterling crown. She was also, Syeira noted, startled, barefoot.

She was sure that maids had attempted to convince Leta otherwise, but Syeira had a feeling the girl would listen to no one but herself.

Syeira was so consumed in imbibing the festivities that she didn't notice Kasper Galathynius sidling up beside her until he spoke.

"You're late."

She jumped, and swore. He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. "You scared me," she snapped, massaging her chest. Kasper followed her fingers, and it might've been her imagination, or the glass of wine in his hand, but he seemed to flush. She got a kind of savage satisfaction from it. "And anyway, I'm not _that_ late. I was there at the temple this morning when Aelin was actually crowned."

His mouth quirked, and her heart skipped a beat. Gods, that _smile._

Never had she met a boy before that smiled like Kasper Galathynius did.

"Technically, I believe it's 'Your Majesty' now," was all he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why are you talking to me?"

"I'm not allowed to talk to you now?" he replied, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms and ankles, his wineglass dangling from his slender fingers.

She scowled at him. "You just didn't seem too keen on it before."

Kasper cocked a brow. "I'm sorry. Should I have found a time in the two weeks since I arrived in my home to have made time to chat with a princess whose presence is barely tolerated in this castle, let alone at court?"

Syeira dug her fingernails into her palms. "Bastard," she spat, forgetting for a moment who he was.

But Kasper didn't seem bothered. He just laughed. "Your tongue really is as wicked as everyone says." He took a step forward, setting his chalice down on a nearby table, and crossed over to her in two strides of his long, muscled legs. He grinned at her, and her chest contracted. "I'm taking the time to get to know you now, Your Highness."

She swallowed. He was distractingly close.

 _Raiden._ Raiden, still far away…

But even he hadn't dared to comment on her wicked mouth. He'd seemed too reverent of her, too cowed by her status, to try.

She couldn't tell if she respected or despised Kasper for his complete and utter unconcern with her bite.

She was close enough that she could faintly catch the scent wafting up from him. Pine and ashes—fire and sap, the scent of burned things that stung her nose.

He laughed quietly before extending a hand. "I don't suppose you'd do me the honor of dancing with me, Your Highness?"

She should've said no. She _wanted_ to say no.

But instead, she said, "Yes." Breathlessly.

The prick knew it, too. He smirked wickedly at her, and took her hand, leading her into the throng of dancers just as the musicians ended another song.

Kasper put one hand on her shoulder, the other on her waist, and she sucked in a breath. He leaned in as she put trembling hands around her neck. "Alright there, princess?" he whispered. His breath tickled the hairs on the nape of her neck, and she shivered.

" _I'm_ fine."

She hated that her voice shook. Hated it.

The music started, and her feet moved unconsciously, accustomed to balls and parties and glamour that dripped and oozed. Surprisingly, Kasper moved just as fluidly, spinning her around twice before his hands found her waist again.

"You're not bad at this," she said, surprised.

He huffed a chuckle. "My mother taught me a few tricks."

Syeira had an image, suddenly, of a seven-year-old boy dancing around a cell with Aelin, dirty and scrubby and young, swaying to the noise of invisible music.

"She hoped I would find my way back here one day," Kasper said, the laughing tone gone. "She wanted me to know how to dance when I did."

Syeira's hands relaxed on the back of his neck, and almost unconsciously, her fingers brushed against his golden curls. His breath snagged, and she did it again, toying with the strands of liquid sunlight.

"You dance well," she said at last, tipping her chin up. "But there's always room for improvement."

His eyes widened, and his face split into a grin. "Perhaps you can teach me one day."

And swiftly, with the kind of ease only a Fae could achieve, he lifted her up, his hands spanning her waist, each finger shooting trails of fire up her abdomen. She forgot, for a moment, quite how to breathe as he let her down, skirts bunching against him.

The song ended, and Syeira and Kasper both panted, staring at each other.

"No time like the present," she said at last, winded. She took his hand and placed it on her waist, flattening his palm against her skin. _There. That._

"Why, Your Highness," he said slowly, delightedly, "are you asking me to dance?"

"Practice makes perfect," she said, and couldn't help inhaling sharply as he slung her body against his, pressed up against his sculpted chest.

His fingers knotted with hers. "Then perhaps, princess, you should lead."

She gazed up at him, ensnared momentarily in the gleam of mischief in his forest-green eyes. _Springtime._

That was what Kasper was. Spring.

"Call me Syeira," she said.

" _Syeira,"_ he whispered, and she couldn't help thinking, despite everything, that something about his voice sounded familiar.

—

 **LORCAN**

Lorcan wouldn't stay much longer. If everything went as planned, he would leave the next morning, gone with the dawn as the sun rose on Aelin's first official day as queen.

He'd done what he set out to do.

He was a coward.

He watched the dancing with thinly veiled amusement. Kasper and Syeira Crochan-Havilliard had been dancing for three straight hours, and Lorcan doubted that the two were aware of the many pairs of watching, flabbergasted eyes. Dorian seemed liable to haul Kasper off his daughter at any moment, and Rowan and Aelin were hissing with fury.

Lorcan snickered to himself in his position in a shadowed corner, tucked away in an alcove where he could observe without being seen.

 _Almost._

"You've been avoiding me."

Lorcan went taut as a bowstring.

That _voice…_

She'd found him. Lorcan had been beginning to think that she was avoiding him just as much as he'd been avoiding her.

 _Elide._

She had begun to bear the markings of age, and each one of them shattered something new inside of him. Her hair was touched with silver at the temples, new wrinkles formed around her eyes. Things so small that Lorcan doubted he would have noticed them had he not known her face so dearly, even after all that time.

She was stunning in a black sheath of a dress, onyx crystals dangling from her ears like miniature pendulums. She carried a polished cane.

Lorcan didn't even have to think. He sent out a tendril of his magic, stabilizing her foot.

Elide felt him do it. Her expression was unreadable.

"I didn't think you'd want to see me," said Lorcan hoarsely, because after everything that he'd done, that she'd done, the mistakes and brokenness that settled into the rift between the two of them, she deserved the truth.

"I didn't, at first," she admitted. "Until I heard what you did—for all of them."

"It was my fault in the first place," he said, harsher than he intended.

But then, Elide had never been scared away by his cutting words. "Yes," she whispered. "It is not absolution."

She was far better at the truth game than he on the rare occasions that she wanted to be.

"I leave tomorrow," he said.

She didn't react. He hated that.

"Where?"

"East," he said. "To track down Maeve—to find Fenrys and Raiden again and help them."

"A bit like finding a needle in a haystack, isn't it?"

"I have nowhere else to go," he said.

That had been more truth than he had been willing to diverge. More than he had been willing to give.

Elide reached out a hand and locked her fingers with Lorcan's. He stared at their knitted palms, befuddled.

"If you still want to go to Perranth with me," she said, eyes opaque, "I will always have a room for you there."

Lorcan stopped breathing.

"Truly?" he whispered.

"I will not forget what you have done," she said. "But I will forgive."

He couldn't help her. In one swift, rough movement that betrayed the animal inside his skin, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

It was feral, that kiss. Feral and desperate and wild, making up for the time they could and would never get back.

When they at last parted, hazy and swollen and trembling, Elide looked at him and licked her lips.

"Dance with me," she murmured.

This road would lead to nothing but heartbreak. Elide was mortal, and so frighteningly fragile despite her brilliant mind, and a decade and a half's worth of heartbreaks laid between them.

But he loved her. Gods help him, even after all these years, he _loved her._

"I've got you," he said, and set her cane aside as he wrapped his magic and that foolish, stupid love around the ankle that had been broken so brutally.

—

 **LETA**

No one noticed her leave.

—

 **VAUGHAN**

The cells of the palace at Orynth were not the worst that Vaughan Zamil had ever endured. He had been in far worse places, chained by manacles that cut far more deeply. The stone of these dungeons were dry, his bed of hay in the corner without mildew or lice.

He had been relegated to a solitary cell, far away from any other prisoners. The sentries tonight were lackluster at best; he could faintly hear three or four of them playing a rowdy, drunken game of cards. The coronation ball had made security lazy and lax.

He sprawled out on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was pleasant, losing himself in the pattern of the stone blocks. Mind-numbing.

Footsteps sounded outside the cell, and Vaughan propped himself up on his elbows, furrowing his brow. His ration of bread and water had already been delivered, his slop pot already emptied out.

But it was not a guard. It was Leta.

For a moment, she looked so devastatingly beautiful that Vaughan's tongue sat limply, numbly in his mouth. He was sure that Aelin had tried to force Leta into a corseted, intricate fall of silk and satin, but Leta had clearly won.

Flimsy, silver-white silk draped over her body, uncorseted. Her hair was loose, parting over her peaked ears. A silver necklace gleamed at her neck.

She had saved him. She had thrown herself in front of a _knife_ for him.

She carried a bundle in her arms. A cloak, made for traveling—coarse brown wool, knotted simply by a pewter clasp.

And dangling from her fingers was the key to his cell.

"I've been studying blood oaths a bit," she said softly. She came over, inserting the key into the lock of his cell. Vaughan didn't think to protest—he couldn't even wrap his mind around her presence.

Silence fell over the two of them.

"I, Princess Leta Lyria Evalin Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius, hereby release you from your orders to follow and observe me," she said. "To do so will be considered an act of war."

A physical pressure lifted his chest.

The only way a blood oath could be deterred—a formal declaration of war.

"That's only temporary," he croaked.

"It's enough."

His chest rose and fell shallowly as she opened the door to his cell. She stepped inside and handed the cloak.

"Most of the guards are at the ball," she said. "If you go down this hall, take a right, and another left, you can leave the palace without anyone discovering your absence until tomorrow morning."

 _No. Not this._

"Here," she said, handing him the cloak. "It's cold outside."

"No," he rasped. "I won't. I can't."

She shut her eyes. "Please. Take the cloak."

"I _won't_ ," he repeated, more forcefully. _I can't lose you. I can't leave you. Please, please, please…_ "I would rather be here with you than be free without you."

Too honest—too blatant.

But when her eyes opened, he saw nothing but exhaustion.

"This isn't for you," she said. "It's for me."

For once, he could think of nothing to say or think.

"I need time," she said, voice breaking. "To figure all of… _this_ out. I need to learn where I fit—if I fit at all. And I can't do that if there's something here constantly reminding me of… of before."

"You need me to leave," he whispered.

" _Please,"_ she said, finding his hand. Her fingers closed over his own. Her skin was cold. "I'm begging you. _Please,_ Vaughan."

He looked down at her hand. "The blood oath can only be deterred for so long," he said, grappling for something, anything; some argument that he could plant before her like a banner.

But there was none.

"I have no disillusions," she said, mouth curling up in a lovely, sad smile. "We'll see each other again someday, I'm sure. But for now, I just need…"

"Time," Vaughan said. "Away from me."

She nodded, slumping. "Please, Vaughan."

She was so young. He forgot sometimes.

He stood up, his chains rattling faintly. She had another set of keys—she must've lifted them all. _Clever._

Wordlessly, he extended his hands to her. She unlocked his cuffs, fingers quivering.

The weight of iron left his chest, and he rolled his shoulders.

"I'll go," he said.

Even when it made his mouth taste like ashes.

He pulled her in and kissed her. Softly, slowly, as gently as he could muster. A promise to them both.

"I love you," he said.

And then, without another word, he took the cloak from her hands and left.

He glanced behind his shoulder, halting on the corner.

She stood in the aisle outside his cell, leaning against the bars of his cage, a tattoo of stars inked over her sun-browned skin. She was weeping.

He left her there, bathed in fragile moonlight and tears.

He did not look back again.

* * *

 **A/N: I literally listened to the _Titanic_ soundtrack during the last scene XD. It was very dramatic.**

 **Anyway, this is the end of Part II (which, despite only being about 4 or 5 chapters, is still almost certainly longer than Part I, because, you know, chapter size). Part III will resume two years from now... So you'll get to see a newly-matured bunch of kiddos before the real fighting part of the story. (Now I've got to figure out a way to actually deal with Maeve and Erawan. Dammit.)**

 **I hope everyone liked the story thus far. As always, my immense thanks goes to everyone that's reviewed, followed, or favorited. You're a part of this story just as much as Leta or Kasper is.**

 **THANK-YOU LIST TIME!**

 **Diana Black 12,** **Salzkuu,** **Nerdgirl2389,** **Apez007,** **kittysniper9 (I hope you enjoyed the parallels in this chapter, too... *cough cough* VAUGHAN *cough cough*),** **Guest,** **Real Life Trash,** **fairymaster,** **Guest,** **Wren mistblade,** **ClearlyNerdy,** **Guest,** **Minty (nah, Toraigh was more just like a way for an average citizen to get the first look at Aelin and Kasper, but I'm glad you liked him. :D I'm totally a Will person** — **I think it's a reader thing. It's literally like impossible for me to read Will quoting _A Tale of Two Cities_ and not slump to the floor in a swoon. Idk.), ****Miami Blackheart,** **mandyreilly,** **Love this story/Shiro is King,** **Guest,** **KayGe08 (yeah... Rowan legit almost killed Vaughan, but at the same time, Vaughan kind of had it coming...),** **Jessie,** **Dacowluva (x6 AH),** **DouxBebeGladiator,** **Guest,** **silverstargenesis,**

 **YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING. Seriously. This one's for you :) **


	16. Pt 3: Chapter 15

**A/N: I'm back! :D This chapter is considerably shorter (like... 22k less words), but that's why I'm able to update it less than a week after the first one. I'm going to try this size out again for awhile. No more huge-ass chapters, at least not until I've got more time on my hands: from now on, we'll be getting single POV (location-wise, anyway, for the most part), much shorter chapters that'll be updated far more frequently. I'M TAKING IT AS A WIN.**

 **As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys are amazing!**

 **Alright, a brief recap and then onto the story...**

 **RECAP: Two years after the last chapter, basically. All is well, Vaughan is gone, and Syeira's high-tailed it to the Torre Cesme to find a purpose in life other than generally being a pain in everyone's ass. Maeve has fled, and Kasper and Syeira are struggling to adjust (though they do have the help of their cousins, Aedion and Lysandra's children, Channon and Daleka, Dallie for short).**

 **ENJOY! :D**

* * *

 **TWO YEARS LATER**

 **PART III**

 **Losers-Weepers**

CHAPTER 15

 **LORALIE**

When Loralie was a little girl, her father used to tell her stories about the lands beyond the confines of their farm. She would sit by his feet with her knees curled up to her chest, rocking back and forth, listening to his tobacco-roughened voice. She'd peer over the porch railing, watching the sun set behind the sea of shifting barley stalks, washing the world in clementine and gold.

"The world out there is dangerous," he'd say, in that strange faraway tone that made him seem only half-there, as if she might glance up and find his chest transparent, dissolving into thin air before her eyes. "But it's beautiful, too. I can only hope, my Lilie, that you can see it one day—and that it is not so cruel."

 _Lilie._ It was the nickname her mother had given Loralie when she was small, right before she died. Loralie had vague memories of her; a woman with honeyed hair and cheeks with freckles like spattered birdseed, with a laugh like fresh soap and cold springwater.

Her father called her that even after the darkness enveloped her, even after the light that had once suffused her laughing heart had grown cold and damp. "My Lilie," he'd said. "What am I going to do with you?"

That was at first. Then it became: _Lilie, Lilie, please._

Then: _My Lilie, where are you? You are not my Lilie._

She did see the world. She watched it all—watched it _burn,_ and laughed. Her laugh was not at all like her mother's, though perhaps it could have been, once. It was the laugh of someone that knew that they had won at the expense of others; the laugh of someone that shed their guilt and lingering mercy with an infectious stream of bubbling giggles that sounded with the chirps of the morning dawn.

Loralie had been alive a very, very long time. Her home no longer stood, but her memories remained, imprisoned in stalactites of glittering pyrite.

It had been an age since someone had last sought her out—an age and a half. A mistake.

She had been alive when the three sister-queens of the Fae had been born. She had watched little Mab, Mora, and Maeve grow, had nurtured them into madness.

She waited now at the periphery of the woods, crumbling bark between her fingers. She knew when wandering souls sought her help, and her lips twisted in a feral smile as a familiar scent drew closer, closer; closer still.

The woods this far east were forgotten, dense and webbed with forgotten whispers and lies. Creatures roamed these trees that were almost as old as Loralie herself, almost as wicked. But not nearly as cruel.

Loralie had known Hellas herself. She had made him her bitch.

The sound of hoofbeats pattered against the tar-colored soil, thudding rhythmically. Loralie cocked her head, curved ears pricking. Ten Fae, one of them with a pulsing energy Loralie knew from an eon ago.

The entourage appeared in the copse of trees, and Loralie remained in her spot, cloaked in the shadows she had ensnared.

The female below was striking, with a sheet of ebony hair and violet eyes that glitter in the darkness. A man trotted up to her side, and Loralie saw her knuckles tighten on her reins, even from far away. _Interesting._

"Your Majesty," the male said. "Why are we here? We've been on the move for two years, and our men are starting to get restless—"

The female shot him a look that could kill, and Loralie chuckled. She taught the female that look, although Loralie's was still better.

"We are waiting," the female replied crisply. "Question me again, Cairn, and I'll have you flogged for insubordination."

He bowed his head, but Loralie could sense his threads of discontent even from her distance. "Yes, Your Majesty," he murmured. "Of course."

The female tipped her head up, slitting her eyes to scan the trees. _Look a little harder, dear._ "I know you're here," she called out, voice slicing through the air like a dagger. "I know you know I've been searching for you."

Loralie didn't move a muscle. She perched on a branch, her claws inserted deeply into the wood.

"I refused your offer once," the female continued, undeterred. "I will not do so now."

 _And what makes you think I will extend it again, little queen?_

This time, Loralie's whisper rippled through the sea of soldiers. The Fae below startled, jerking their horses back, heads snapping around, searching for the source of the clawing throat.

"I have news from the west," said the female. "News that even you have not heard, far east as you have imprisoned yourself."

Loralie's lips peeled back in a snarl. _Tread carefully,_ she growled.

This time, the Fae inched perceptibly closer to each other.

But the female was unnerved. Perhaps she had changed after all. "Your husband has reemerged," she said. "And your sons are gearing up for war."

Loralie did not reply.

"They stir in Erilea," said the female. "They intend to set the world on fire and watch it burn."

" _You lie,"_ Loralie snarled, and this time heads whipped toward the source of her audible voice. "My husband died long ago."

"I do not," said the female levelly. "He is alive. But he will not be for long, if he does not get help." She smiled wickedly, and with some intrigue, Loralie realized that this smile was not one she had taught the little queen—it was a smile all the queen's own. The queen raised her hand, and her fingers wove with darkness; smoke and screams.

Loralie crept forward.

"I intend to douse the world with water," the queen said. "And watch it go out."

Loralie leapt.

She had been perched up on a branch several hundred feet in the air, and she came plummeting down now, a whistling streak of color against the dark forest that paled in comparison to her cruelty and cunning.

She slammed against the ground, pounding a crater in the terrain, but her knees did not crumple. She was far, far stronger than that.

The Fae recoiled, some of them falling off their horses in terror and fright. She curled her lips to reveal razor-sharp teeth made of sharp, glittering basalt, her solid black eyes glowing with a sinister fire.

She had not always looked like this. She had not always had two antimony ram's horns curling up from her skull, had not always had braids of shining obsidian, had not always had skin the shade of slate-gray pebbles at the bottom of the stream. Once she had had irises, not just emptiness where her eyes should be.

She did not miss it.

Loralie pushed herself up, grinning sinisterly. One of the Fae retched into the grass. "Well, Maevie," she purred, waving her basalt-tipped claws. "I am listening."

The queen paled, but only for a moment. Then she began to speak.

And for the first time in over a thousand years, Loralie felt that horrible laugh in her chest beginning to stir.

 _No, Father. I am not your Lilie. I have not been for quite some time. Not anymore._

—

 **KASPER**

The girls had found him. Again.

He had finally found a place to study, closeted in the corner of the library, a nook crowded with dust motes and flickering tapers. His tutors would have his head if he didn't find a way to get the finer points of etiquette and foreign policy through his thick skull, and he needed a bit of peace and quiet.

The girls were like bloodhounds, he thought resentfully. Bejeweled bloodhounds that wanted nothing more than to get their hands on him.

He slung his satchel over his shoulder, ducking around the corner, and found six of them huddled in the hallway. They dissolved into a fit of giggles, and he forced himself to plaster a bright smile on his face.

"Ladies," he said, offering them a sweeping bow.

"Your Highness," one of them stammered, sinking into a curtsy. "We're so terribly sorry—"

"To have disturbed me?" he interrupted, lips quirking. "Don't worry. Unfortunately, however, I _do_ have an urgent meeting, so—" He inclined his head toward the path leading out of the library, to the stairwell that would lead him up to his rooms.

He didn't have an important appointment, of course. Unless an appointment was code word for a nap.

"Of course," the girl said, dimpling. "Apologies, Your Highness."

He winked at them. "I'll see you at dinner tonight," he said. They tittered, and he sidled by, booking for the doors to the library, nearly sprinting until he was out of their line of sight.

They always found him. Every gods-damned time.

He set his teeth, hauling himself up flight after flight of stairs. After two years in Orynth, he had learned how to navigate the castle with his eyes closed, and his feet took turns automatically, diving down corridors and ascending steep stairwells with ease.

He finally reached the turret that had been given to him as his chambers. Kasper gave a nod to the guards standing vigil outside, and pushed past them, shoving open the door. He groaned, his fingers massaging the tense muscles in his neck, and let his satchel hit the floor with a muted _thud._

A noise from within his chambers caught his attention. A slight rustle—the turn of a page.

He sauntered into his expansive sitting room, hands stuffed in his pockets, and found his sister sprawled out over his couch, a book in her hands. _Poetry Predating Brannon, Vol. VIII._

Good gods. _Why?_

He plucked an apple off the center table, sinking his teeth into it with a crunch. Sweet, tart juice filled his mouth as he said, "Do you ever spend any time in your own room?"

Leta didn't glance up from her book as she replied in a droll, monotone voice, "No."

"Oh," he said, flopping down in an armchair. "Good, good. Just wanted to have that cleared up for sure."

"Glad I could be of service," she said, licking her thumb and turning the page.

He paused. "What the hell are you reading?"

"Epic poetry," she said, snapping the book shut with a _thud._ "Mostly old stories—Deanna and her human lover, etcetera, etcetera."

"Ah," Kasper said. "Our long-lost relative."

Leta sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. "I thought you were supposed to be in the library."

"I was," he replied. "And then I was invaded."

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Kas. You encourage it."

"I _encourage_ it?" he sputtered.

"I bet," she said, "that right before you left them, you gave them some bullshit excuse and a charming wink or grin. Correct me if I'm wrong."

He glared at her. "I don't _encourage_ them. I just don't want to be rude."

Leta re-opened her book.

"You're in a lovely mood," he said. "Did a bird shit on your head this morning?"

"That was yesterday."

He studied her. She seemed… tired. Even more so than usual. Kas worried about his sister sometimes. She never seemed to show much emotion, as if she kept it all locked up tightly in a region that she didn't let anyone see—sometimes not even Kasper.

"Why are you here, Le?"

"If you want me to leave—"

"Don't pull that passive-aggressive shit with me," he interrupted. "It won't work."

She didn't say anything for a moment. Then, she said, much more quietly, "Sometimes I just need some air."

Kasper's brow furrowed. As much as he understood the sentiment, he knew that there was something she wasn't telling him—something she held back.

Leta always held something back. She seemed unwilling to lend any piece of herself, big or small, to someone, as if by doing so, she might lose it forever.

Suddenly, she dug in her pocket, withdrawing a note. "Here," she said, tossing it to him. He caught it, surprised. "It's not for me—it was for Channon originally. He passed it on. Thought you might want to see it."

Kasper glanced down, and his heart stopped. The letter was written in bold, curling strokes, eloquent and almost irritatingly flourished. His eyes snagged on the signature at the bottom. _HRH Syeira Sorscha Blackbeak Crochan Havilliard._

Only Syeira would sign a friendly letter with her full name. Kasper couldn't imagine leaving his entire, horrifying string at the bottom of a casual letter: _Kasper Samuel Rhoe Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius._

His lips twitched.

"She's finished her training at Torre Cesme, apparently," said Syeira. "She's coming home to Adarlan, last I checked."

"I'll pray for Dorian and Manon," Kasper replied, tossing the letter onto his end table.

Her brows flicked up. "Kas," she said. "Really."

He wished he wasn't so transparent. "It's nothing to me," he said. "I'm glad she's got some useful skill. She'll need it."

"You two seemed awfully friendly at your last encounter for it to mean _nothing_ to you," she said, flipping the page.

"I mean it," he said. "Syeira is more trouble than she's worth." _A fact I'd do well to remember._

Leta didn't say anything. She'd had her piece, however small it had been, and she wouldn't probe further. It was one of the things he liked most about her: she didn't care a fig about having the last word or winning an argument, as long as she said what she wanted to say.

"You seem sad today," he said, and because it was Leta, and only Leta, he felt comfortable stating it so blandly. He and his sister had a way about them. It wasn't that they told each other everything, or that there were no secrets between them: there was a sea of secrets, an ocean of unshared thoughts.

It was a mutual understanding. Above all else, they understood each other, even when no one else did.

"I'm not."

"The hell you aren't," he said. "Leta—"

She gave him a strained smile. "Kas," she said. "I'm fine. Please. I'm just tired, that's all."

"Maybe you should get some sleep."

"Easier said than done," she murmured.

The two of them lapsed into silence, and Leta resumed her reading, turning the page periodically. Kasper found the lilt of pages to be familiar, somehow soothing, rhythmic crinkling, like dry leaves crunching beneath the heels of his boots during autumn.

"Read a poem to me," he said, staring up at the ceiling.

She half-laughed. "What?"

"You have a nice reading voice," he said. "And I've got one too many thoughts for my comfort now."

They had taken up residence in his mind lately, the thoughts. _King, crown, magic, Erawan, Maeve, mate._ It had been two years, and Kasper still had nightmares every night about Maeve's fingernails raking down his spine, still had doubts about the crown that sat so very precariously on his head.

He knew that Leta had her own demons. He saw the shadows of the witch that had shredded her lurking behind her irises, the memories of scars that never left.

Ghosts, Kasper thought, were a tangible phenomenon. They were the silhouettes of the ones he had left behind—the voices of those that were dead or gone, blown away with the breeze of steel-tipped serendipity. Syeira haunted his footsteps, Raiden and Fenrys trodding her well-worn path. Maeve stroked his arm; Cairn ran his finger along the wire of his whip. Sometimes they spoke to him, while Kasper sat in his bed at night, unable to find the sleep he so dearly wished to embrace.

 _Why didn't you tell me?_ Syeira said.

 _Why didn't you bring me home?_ Raiden said. _Was it because you really thought I could survive, or because you wanted her for yourself?_

 _Why didn't you save my brother?_ Fenrys said. _Even if he was your tormentor, I saved your sister. You should have done the same for me._

 _Come closer, little bitch,_ Cairn said.

And Maeve—she was the worst of all. Always the worst.

 _Let me show you._

He knew that Leta had her own ghosts: Mohana, Vaughan, and gods knew who else, what other secrets she kept locked up tight.

She did have a nice voice. She was the only one that had been able to keep the ghosts away for him. She was his sister.

She stared at him for a moment longer before clearing her throat. "'She rode the stars / because it was there that reason / failed to exist, / there that she could finally / let out a weeping wail of freedom, / clench her fist, / and dare to sing…'"

—

 **LETA**

Leta sat by the edge of the ice pond in the throne room, watching the children laugh.

Dallie sat next to Leta, the eleven-year-old girl's head on her shoulder. Leta held an affection for the young girl, and in turn, Aedion and Lysandra's daughter had become her own personal shadow. Leta wasn't sure why; it wasn't as if she were particularly popular at court. People liked her fine enough, but they never knew what to make of her.

Dallie didn't seem to mind. Leta adored her.

"You're quiet today," said Dallie, propping her freckled chin on her hands.

Leta shrugged. She noticed Dallie shivering, and shrugged off her own coat, wrapping it around the girl's shoulders. "Just one of those days, I suppose," she said.

Dallie's forehead wrinkled. "How?"

Leta wished people would stop asking her about her feelings. "Sometimes there's not enough words to go around," she said at last. "You know?"

This time, the girl nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I know."

Leta didn't mention the other note she had gotten—the one that was tucked in her bodice, paper scraping against her soft, sensitive skin.

"Will you practice with me?" asked Dallie.

Leta resisted the urge to sigh. "Not today," she said. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Oh. Okay."

She swallowed the lingering guilt and watched Kasper skate across the ice with grace, the four-year-old daughter of Lady Evangeline on his shoulders. Evangeline observed from the sidelines, a sad smile tugging at her beautiful mouth. She wore all black, and a crepe veil that shaded her face like spun licorice. She was in mourning: her husband had died a month earlier, lost in a shipwreck.

Leta's heart tugged for Lady Evangeline. She liked the copper-haired woman, and she adored her daughter, Cat.

She saw Kasper lift the girl up, tossing her high into the air. Leta envied Kasper's easy grace. Life at court was so easy for him, or if not easy, at least manageable. Constantly Leta found herself with the sensation of drowning, struggling to stay afloat in the riptide.

She should count herself lucky, she supposed. Two years later, and there had been no more attacks from Erawan; no news from Maeve. Dorian, Manon, and their entourage had stayed at the palace for another two months before sending their daughter south to Torre Cesme, and another month after that before heading west to the Crochan Kingdom. But the world had been quiet, hedged with baited breath.

Lorcan and Elide had gone back to Perranth. Leta had attended their wedding—had stood in the background in a corset that sliced through her ribs. Later, head spinning from champagne, she had kissed a boy behind a hedge maze, one of the few that had not been afraid of her.

She had waited until she got back to her room to weep.

People had dispersed, and Leta had remained at the castle, easing herself into the role of princess. Her mother and father, at least, she understood better. Her father especially. Despite his initial role with Vaughan, she had grown to like the novelty of having a father. He, along with her mother, was one of the few that did not flinch away from her.

Dallie yawned sleepily, and Leta glanced at her fondly. "Come here," Leta said, patting the floor in front of her. Dallie scooted over, her back to Leta. This was a routine of theirs, well-worn by now.

Leta wound her fingers in Dallie's thick golden curls, so like Kas, Aelin, and Aedion's. Ashryver coloring. Deftly, Leta wove a series of braids, her fingers working with the glittering strands.

"Syeira's coming back," said Dallie.

"I know," Leta replied, twisting Dallie's hair to the side. "Back to Adarlan, I hear."

"I didn't like her much," Dallie said. "I liked Orion, though."

"Me too," Leta agreed.

"I think Kasper likes Syeira."

A smile tugged at the corners of Leta's lips. "I think so too."

Dallie curled up beside Leta. "You promise we'll practice together tomorrow?"

Leta nodded. Dallie liked to test her sword skills and Fae reflexes against Leta's, and Leta was ashamed to admit that the eleven-year-old girl beat far more often than she should have. "I promise," said Leta firmly, squeezing the girl's hand. "Tomorrow."

The two of them sat there, Leta staring at the splattered, inky canvas through the windowpanes, remembering another night exactly two years ago, when she had given a cloak and lost something in return.

—

 **AELIN**

Aelin woke with her head on Rowan's shoulders, her fingers laced with his.

Even two years after Maeve, it still didn't feel real sometimes, him holding her, his scent flooding her nose. He was asleep now, the planes of his beautiful face thrown into profile by the sun filtering in through the windows of their bedroom. She traced his tattoo lazily, smiling as his hand tightened on her waist.

"Let me sleep, dammit," he muttered.

Her hand snaked down his cheekbones, fingernails scraping against the tattoo wrapping around his neck, and curling lower still, splaying against his abdomen.

His eyes opened, pupils dilated, and he snarled. "I _said_ let me sleep."

She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat. "Did you now," she murmured against his skin. "I must not have heard you."

Aelin had been so afraid that Rowan would be angry with her when she came back to Terrasen—that he would be furious for what had let happen to Kasper, to Leta, to him. But instead he had held her that first night, held her tight while she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, and told her again and again and again _I love you, I love you, my mate, my mate._

She loved that she could tease him now.

She loved that he could pin her to the mattress with one deft flick of her waist.

She shrieked as he pressed a hot, searing kiss to her mouth, his hands bunching in her nightgown. Metallic gold—most of her nightgowns were. She enjoyed the look on his face almost as much as she enjoyed what he did to her in it.

And then she heard the scream.

She and Rowan both jerked upright. It was a horrible scream, the kind that sent chills down Aelin's spine. The kind that made all the blood drain from her face.

The kind that came from horrible pain.

She grabbed her dressing robe from where it hung off the back of her chair and Goldryn from where it sat at the foot of her bed, and Rowan did likewise. Just because they were happy did not mean they were complacent—they still slept with weapons at their feet.

They didn't waste time. Rowan yanked on a pair of trousers, and then they were out of their chambers, sprinting down the halls with the speed only a Fae could accomplish.

The scream sounded again—this time joined with others. _More screaming, more screaming, more screaming._

She should have known. Erawan would not wait.

They ran into Kasper and Leta in the hallway. Kasper's hair was mussed, eyes bleary, but Leta seemed wide-awake, as if she hadn't been sleeping at all, despite the early hour. In fact, she was fully clothed, and Aelin caught the scent of the forest on her, as if she'd been outside.

A mystery to puzzle out another time. They were already sprinting.

They skidded down the hallway as the shrieks sounded, again and again and again, until they found themselves in the Grand Hall of the palace, adorned with the silver-and-green banners of Terrasen, the proud stag interspersed with the crest of Whitethorns and Ashryvers.

The front doors to the hall had been flung open. Sunlight fell on the stones in dappled rays, gleaming on the rows of chrome armor, catching the silver needlework in the long carpet runner.

Aelin pushed her way to the front, shading her eyes as her bare feet scraped against the stone steps.

It took a moment for the white haze of brightness to clear.

She wished she hadn't.

She clapped a hand to her mouth.

There were two pine trees on either side of the front doors of the palace of Orynth, each towering high and proud, carrying the sharp, clean scent of her mate. Their boughs were laden with a thin, clear layer of frost.

Strung between the two trees was a rope. Dangling from the rope were three bodies.

The corpses were fresh; Aelin knew enough to tell. Three of them were soldiers, unrecognizable to her, stripped of their armor and left bare-chested with stained trousers.

Death was ugly. It was one of the things you never realized until you had to face it. People shat when they died. They swelled. They reeked.

Three of the bodies were guards. But the fourth…

The fourth…

Kasper crumpled to his knees and retched.

The body was so very, very small. A child's build.

Aelin wished she did not know the blood-matted golden hair, the heart-shaped face, the freckled skin, the eyes that were blue even beyond the layer of filmy glass.

"No," Rowan whispered. " _No."_

Footsteps sounded behind them, and Aelin knew by the scent who it would be. She couldn't breathe.

It was too sunny. It was too bright. There was a crowd of people below, a throng of common cloth and jeers and shouts and pointing, and Aelin couldn't speak, couldn't think—

"What the hell is going on?" Aedion said, coming to her side. "What—"

He froze.

More footsteps, then a head of black hair and jade-green eyes. _Lysandra._

"Aelin, what is it?" Lysandra said. "What's happening?" At her side was Channon, his hair sticking up, his eyes raw and red from sleep.

Horror settled into the pit of Aelin's stomach.

"Lys," Aedion said raggedly, stumbling forward. " _Lys."_

Lysandra swiveled toward the bodies, and Aelin wished she could have stopped her, wished she had turned her around and told her to go somewhere else, anywhere else, because she _shouldn't look…_

The blood drained from her face.

She'd seen the last body.

She _screamed._

Lysandra crumpled, legs giving way, and screamed and screamed and screamed, and Aelin knelt down beside her, arms going around her fragile form, because she _knew,_ she _knew,_ she _knew…_

" _Dallie!"_ Lysandra screamed, clawing to get away from Aelin, and Aedion was already running, and Rowan was the one that had to hold him back. Kasper was vomiting on the floor, ashen and sweating, and people watched, stunned and horrified.

Channon began, silently, to cry.

It was horrible—a little fourteen-year-old, weeping as he stared at the body of his dead sister.

Lysandra began to shift, but Aelin held her firmly, pinned her to the ground, turned her face away and pressed it to the concrete. " _Don't look,"_ Aelin said desperately, even as the tenuous strings holding her heart together threatened to break.

"Let me _g-go_ ," Lysandra sobbed, her body convulsing. " _Let me go! Dallie! Dallie!"_

"Shh," Aelin said. "Don't look. _Don't look._ "

The fight left Lysandra as soon as it had come.

She slumped, her shoulders caving in, and she lay on the stone, her face red and bleeding from her own fingernails, and sobbed, over and over again, rocking back and forth, horrible, wracking noises of anguish, more animal than human.

Aedion just stared, even as Rowan's hands dropped from his shoulders.

He didn't say anything.

He just… stared at the dead body of his daughter, swaying gently in the breeze.

It was Leta— _Leta_ —that went to Channon.

Her arms wrapped around him, and he held her fiercely, burying his face in her shoulder, shaking and trembling—not even crying, just quivering with shock and horror and disbelief.

"Take it down," Rowan growled, stalking toward the sea of servants gaping stupidly at the display. "Take it down _now._ "

The servants nodded frantically, but Aelin just sat there, empty-eyed.

Dallie was dead.

It was then, as the realization sank in _(deaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead),_ that Aelin broke down and howled.

* * *

 **A/N: ...I'm sorry. I understand if you feel the need to yell at me.**

 **...New plot lines? Yay?**

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 **pomxxx (x2 YAY) (Elide and Lorcan will DEFINITELY be getting their own plot line soon, don't worry. And as far as Kasper and Syeira go... The whole mates thing is complicated, but no, Dorian won't be able to tell, and neither will Manon. Neither of them can really smell it, if that makes sense, since the two of them have only danced. It'll get explained later as that whole thing develops.)**

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	17. Chapter 16

**A/N: I got some VERY agitated reviews after the last chapter, which are TOTALLY justified. (I'm so sorry. I'm literally the worst. You know how some people have those "resting bitch faces" even though they're like a really nice person? Well, I have one of those, but it's actually representative of my personality. *sigh*) Even so, all reviewers are LOVELY PEOPLE (anyone who's made it all the way to this point in the story is LOVELY), and I thank you all. ;)**

 **As far as Dallie goes, though I figure I should probably warn you that Dallie is not the only one that dies in this story. (NOT ANYTIME SOON. Just... eventually.)**

 **Sorry. But I promise you'll be happier by the end of this chapter. :)**

 **RECAP: Fenrys and Raiden are now bros, on a mission to find Maeve east of Sollemere. Raiden's decision to join everyone's favorite Fae devastated his father, but it gave Raiden a little purpose and a new BFF, so, fair tradeoff. Meanwhile, Syeira recently finished her training at Torre Cesme, and she's rumored to be heading back to Erilea. Leta has been acting strange lately, hiding a mysterious note and coming-and-going at odd hours of the morning, often dressed in outerwear. (Never a good sign.) Oh, and Dallie was recently found hung near the front doors of the palace.**

 **Which, you know. Is somewhat of a damper.**

 **ENJOY! :D**

* * *

CHAPTER 16

 **RAIDEN**

Raiden dreamt about his family sometimes.

This was one of those times.

It was more of a memory regurgitated in dream form, blurry at the edges and stained gold from the light streaming in through the windows. He was three years old, sitting on the floor of his parents' tent at Morath, playing with wooden blocks in the corner.

Raiden had a system with the blocks: he made a tower, ten high, and knocked them over. Built it up, struck it down. Again and again, a rhythm of stacking and falling, stacking and falling; stacking and falling.

His mother sat on the bedroll in the corner, half-asleep. She'd come back from the tactical room an hour ago, and her hair hung in limp, matted tangles. Violet shadows were smudged beneath her eyes.

She'd crawled over toward Raiden, scooping him up in her arms. His father had gone to fight—he'd been gone a long time.

His mother was trembling.

She stroked Raiden's hair, pressing a kiss to his fluff of downy baby hair. "I love you," she said, squeezing his tiny fingers. Her voice shook. "I love you, my Rai. I love you."

There was the sound of a horn blowing: the legion had come back. His mother stiffened as the sound of thousands of footfalls echoed in the cavern, her arms so tight around Raiden that he felt as if he were choking.

He didn't mind. His mother smelled good: like cinnamon, cumin, cayenne, and sweat. Like home.

They waited, the two of them, in silence, Raiden's blocks lying forgotten, sprawled out across the rug in a mess of chipped paint and wood.

The flap of the tent parted.

His father had come back.

For as long as Raiden had remembered, his father had seemed larger-than-life; invincible. A towering, muscled figure, browned skin and russet hair and deft flicks of his wrist with his sword that could quarter most men. He was in full armor now, sweating and bleeding, swords and knives strapped to every orifice of his body.

His mother stood up suddenly, setting Raiden down on the floor, and threw herself into his arms.

He held her tightly, kissing her face frantically, brushing her hair behind her ears. _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you._

Raiden crawled over, toddling weakly on his baby-fat thighs, and wrapped his arms around his parents' calves, hugging them tightly.

Chaol broke apart and hoisted Raiden up, slinging him easily into his arms. His father's eyes were lined with silver, glistening with unshed tears.

"I love you, Rai," he said hoarsely. " _So much."_

Raiden woke from the dream, like he always did, and found himself wondering how he had been such a terrible son—how he had managed to turn that infallible love into disdain, disgust, and disappointment.

—

 **FENRYS**

Fenrys crouched over their campfire, attempting to scramble eggs atop a makeshift skillet. (By makeshift he meant a piece of mostly-clean, mostly-flat slate with a stick attached for a handle.)

It was not going well.

A hand shoved the flap of their tent aside, and Raiden walked out, shading his eyes against the onslaught of bright morning sun. Fenrys's lips quirked up fondly. Rai's hair was a disaster, as it always was in the mornings, reddish cowlicks sticking up in every direction. He was in shambles, his trousers wrinkled, one sock on his left foot.

He was also, Fenrys couldn't help but notice, bare-chested.

Fenrys had been teaching Raiden how to fight, and bit by bit, Rai had become less skinny and gangly and more honed and toned, growing into himself in increments. Fenrys allowed himself to eye Raiden's exposed abdomen before turning his attention hastily back to the skillet.

"What," Raiden said, stifling a yawn and sitting down on the log beside Fenrys, "the fuck are you doing?"

"Such language," said Fenrys mildly. "I'm making breakfast."

"You're making a mess," Raiden observed as a few eggs tumbled off the pan and bit it in the fire.

Fenrys glared at him. "Do you want the eggs or not?"

"Of course I want them," said Raiden. "Don't be ridiculous."

Fenrys smiled, almost against his will, before setting the slate off to the side. They sizzled and popped, and they weren't exactly yellow—more like a beige. He scooped up a handful of scrambled eggs, tossing them into his mouth. "They're not bad," he said, chewing slowly. "For eggs I nicked from a robin's nest, anyway."

Raiden followed suit. "My mother would be horrified," he said around a mouthful of egg. "We're eating with our _hands._ "

"Living on the wild side," Fenrys agreed, reaching out to ruffle Raiden's hair affectionately. Raiden didn't seem to mind; he leaned against Fenrys, eyes closing as the sun washed his dark skin in citrusy warmth.

Raiden's scent filled Fenrys's nose, and he paused, inhaling. Sharp spices; turmeric and nutmeg and tamarind and coriander. _Hell,_ he smelled good.

Fenrys was such a weak bastard. He wrapped his arm around Raiden's shoulders anyway.

Raiden cracked open one eye, glancing up and grinning at Fenrys. He had a dimple in his left cheek, and his nose crinkled. "So," he said, scooping up another handful of eggs and chewing methodically. "What's the plan for today?"

"Before you got up, I took the liberty of inquiring around the next village," Fenrys said. "It's not that far away—maybe a mile or so."

"Do you ever sleep?"

"Not if I can help it," he replied. "Anyway, a few of the villagers said they'd heard rumors of a troupe passing through some time ago."

Rai's eyes narrowed. "What kind of troupe?"

"That's what I said," Fenrys said, taking a swig of water from his canteen. "And they told me it was a group of Fae—all lead by a female with purple eyes. Right terrifying, they said. Thought I was part of it."

Raiden didn't mention that, technically, Fenrys _was_ still part of it, a fact for which Fenrys was immensely grateful.

"How long ago?" Rai asked.

"Two weeks," said Fenrys. "We're getting closer. They headed even further east—we'll go that way, too, and I'll see if I can pick up a scent."

Raiden nodded. "Alright," he said, listing in further to Fenrys, adjusting himself sideways on the log. Fenrys was hyperaware of Raiden's long limbs, the freckle on Rai's upper lip, almost invisible against his burnt-sugar skin.

 _Shit._

Fenrys should've moved, but he didn't. Instead, his hand fell absentmindedly to Rai's hair, smoothing the cowlicks. Raiden didn't seem to mind that, either; he just grinned again.

The two of them had been making their way east for two years, always warm but never hot on Maeve's trail, tracking and re-healing and learning. Fenrys had taught Raiden how to fight, and Raiden had taught Fenrys how to laugh again after Connall's death.

It was strange, Fenrys thought. Raiden, for whatever reason, had always been able to coax a laugh out of him, no matter what, no matter when.

Fenrys had to focus very hard not to look at the fine trail of reddish hair snaking up from Raiden's flat, lean stomach.

"We'll leave in an hour," Fenrys said, relieved that his voice was steady. _He was two hundred years old; he had to get a grip._ "For now, I feel the sudden need to take a nap."

Rai laughed, settling his head on Fenrys's lap and closing his eyes. "Me, too," he said drowsily.

Fenrys exhaled, looking down at the boy sprawled out over the grass, and smoothed Raiden's hair down again, as if by doing so, Fenrys might straighten out a wrinkle in his own fickle, flimsy heart.

—

 **SYEIRA**

In hindsight, Syeira really should have learned by now.

She stood at the prow of the ship, wind ruffling her hair. She'd braided it back neatly, but the breeze had coaxed strands out, and they curled around her ears and forehead now, frizzy and wayalay.

She still wore her healer's uniform; the parchment-colored robes and thyme-colored hair wrap that had marked her as a healer-in-training. Strangely enough, even after two years without them, Syeira didn't miss the weight of jeweled bodices and heavy crowns; weighted pendants and earrings that tugged at her soft, sensitive earlobes.

Syeira didn't know what had made her tell the ship captain to sail not for home, not for Rifthold, but for Terrasen.

That was a lie. Syeira had gotten very good at lying lately, most of all to herself. She knew exactly why.

"We'll be approaching the city soon, Your Highness," the captain said, appearing by her elbow. The river shifted beneath them, widening as they approached Orynth. Syeira had been sailing for over a month, and she smiled at the thought of real land, a real city, even if…

Even if her parents would be furious with her. Furious and hurt, and unable to understand why she would go to Terrasen instead of going home.

Still, Syeira drank in the sight of the city she had once left in such a hurry; the stone buildings glistening with winter frost, adorned with wreaths and clusters of holly berries fresh as rubies against the gray and white.

It was a lovely country, Syeira thought with a pang. Though it was not hers.

But she couldn't go home. She _couldn't._

The boat pulled into the dock, and her entourage helped her off, servants hurrying to collect her luggage and trunks full of books and supplies. She'd brought a host of herbs and crockery from Torre Cesme; dried packets each labeled in her careful, bold script and close-necked flasks; stands and tomes and sheet after sheet of recipes.

And her magic books, of course. Those were perhaps most important of all.

One of her servants fetched a horse, and Syeira slung herself on its back with ease, patting its neck with gloved hands. It was cold out, and she clutched her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

She made her way through the dense maze of streets to the castle, winding past apothecaries and dressmakers and cafes, shops selling everything from bars of soap to magical amulets. Syeira almost scoffed; she'd spent enough time in Antica learning the difference between a genuine piece of jewelry with magical value and a pathetic mimicry.

The castle loomed up before her, and Syeira found herself remembering a night in a ballroom long ago, when she had been late to a coronation and a boy with a wicked smile and eyes like summer fireflies had asked her to dance.

But as she ascended the sloped, curving drive to the palace, she paused.

The windows were not bedecked with wreaths; they were covered in black draperies. The servants were not dressed in their usual livery but in black, and nobles milled about in fountains of ebony tulle and lace and crepe mourning veils.

 _Mourning._

Syeira's heart pounded.

The guards waved her through the gates after giving her a brief, weighted glance, and a steward came out the front doors, anxious and pale.

"Your Highness," he said, bowing hastily. "Why—"

"What's happened?" she interrupted. "What's going on?"

The servant's eyes darted around, as if he were silently screaming for help. "Ah… Well, I don't think—"

" _Syeira?"_

Syeira turned, her horse whipping around in tandem, and saw Leta Galathynius standing off to the side. She almost didn't recognize her. Leta was not the skeletal, haggard girl she had been when Syeira had seen her last. This version of Leta was tall and willowy, and though she seemed tired, she also seemed healthy, with silver hair that shone and a lithe, corded build.

Despite the fact that it was dawn, Leta was fully dressed, as if she had been coming from somewhere else. Syeira narrowed her eyes.

"Hello," she said coldly.

Leta glanced from the steward to Syeira and back again. "Come on," she said to Syeira at last, drooping a bit. Her eyes were red, Syeira noticed, as if she'd been crying. Leta, too, was clad entirely in black.

"What's happened?" Syeira said again, more forcefully this time.

"I'll tell you inside," Leta replied as Syeira dismounted, albeit reluctantly. Leta smiled at the steward. "Please take her things inside. Give her the room in the southwest tower."

The steward nodded, glad for an excuse to flee, and scurried off, shouting orders to Syeira's servants.

Leta flicked her eyes toward Syeira. "I thought you were supposed to go back to Adarlan."

"That's none of your business," Syeira snapped.

"Glad to see the healers' academy hasn't changed your charming personality," said Leta dryly.

"What—"

"You chose quite a time to make a surprise appearance," said Leta, heading inside. Syeira gritted her teeth and followed, skirts swishing around her ankles. "I have to give you points for timing." She turned left, ascending a staircase with ease. Syeira had to jog to keep up with her, wishing bitterly that she'd inherited more of her mother's Blackbeak blood.

"Why is everyone dressed in mourning?" Syeira asked, noting the basalt cloth spread over the stone floors. Even the carpets had been switched out for obsidian ones. "Did someone die?"

"Yes," said Leta shortly, taking a right down a hallway.

"Who? And where are we going?"

"We're going to see my parents," said Leta. "They'll be the ones to deal with you."

Syeira bristled. "Who died?" she prodded again. "Was it someone I know?"

"Yes," Leta repeated, turning down a corridor Syeira recognized at last: the hallway outside the throne room.

" _Who?"_

Leta paused, her hand on the doors. The enormous ice slabs had been rebuilt since Vaughan Zamil had broken them with his body, and they glittered now in all their glory, stalactites of frost and snow.

"Dallie," she said softly, quietly, her voice breaking. "Dallie died."

Syeira's ears filled with a horrible, high ringing as Leta pushed the doors open.

—

 **KASPER**

Of all the people Kasper had been expecting to walk into the throne room, Syeira Crochan-Havilliard was not one of them.

He was on one of the couches scattered across the room, nursing a cup of steaming black coffee imported from the Southern Continent. One of the perks, Kasper thought bitterly, about being a crown prince: coffee whenever he wanted it, laden with as much sugar or cream as he so desired.

He didn't take any sugar or cream. This morning, he'd spiked his coffee with rum.

It had been three days since Dallie had been found, thought it felt much, much longer. There were no children playing in the ice-skating rink in the corner of the throne room, and even the birds nestled in the trees of the throne room didn't sing, as if they knew that the country was in mourning for a small, cheerful little girl with bright blue eyes and a laughter that echoed across the sea.

There had been meeting after meeting as they tried to figure out what had happened. Monsters—a variety of the sort that had attacked the castle two years ago, just before Kasper had arrived—had attacked the guards, slinging them up. Dallie had been wandering outside, taking a walk in the hedge gardens.

She'd been eleven years old, and restless. The monsters had taken her, too.

Kasper had no doubt that it was Erawan, and neither did anyone else, but what they didn't know was how to strike back. There had been no reports from the scouts amassed at Morath, no whisper of anything near the Ferian Gap. Nothing.

It had come out of nowhere, crippling and horrid.

Kasper hadn't been back to his room in a day and a half. He'd remained in the throne room with Channon, the two of them sitting on a couch as Channon cried silently and endlessly. Lysandra and Aedion sat across from them on another sofa, Aedion gripping Lysandra tightly, Lysandra buried his massive arms, almost disappearing in their sea of black silk and satin.

The funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, but it felt as if it had already happened—as if it _were_ happening, that minute, that second, and they were gathered at a wake early in the morning, gathered in the unspoken bond of sleeplessness and grief.

Channon glanced at Kasper's coffee. "Can I have some?" he said, voice hoarse and scratchy.

"It's got quite a bit of hard liquor in it," warned Kasper.

"Can I have some?" Channon repeated.

Kasper laughed raspily and handed the mug to Channon. "Be my guest."

Channon took a swig, making a face. "Burning hell, Kasper, how much rutting rum did you put in here?"

"Not enough," Kasper replied, taking back his cup and downing half of it in a single gulp. It was better, he thought, when his head was spinning. Better when he couldn't quite see Aedion and Lysandra's devastated faces.

His father and mother stood by their thrones, talking together in hushed tones, pushing past their grief to do what they did best: lead a country, figure out what to do next. Problem-solve when no one else could.

The doors opened, and Kasper glanced over… and froze.

Leta stood near the door, her cheeks still pink from the cold, and beside her…

 _Syeira._

She was dressed in a healer's uniform, an eggshell-colored dress paired with a rosemary headwrap. Her braid curled over one shoulder, messy and unkempt, and she was flushed from the chill and deathly pale.

Kasper downed the rest of his coffee.

Aelin blinked. "Syeira?" she said, voice carrying easily over the throne room. "What—what are you doing here?"

Leta led Syeira down the carpet runner, doors shutting behind them, and the nobles returned to their own conversations, though they shot the Crochan princess curious looks. Kasper groaned and tipped his head back, cursing fluently under his breath.

Channon curled up next to Kasper, putting his head on his shoulder. Kasper didn't protest. Instead, he took a fur wrap from the back of the couch and wrapped it around his cousin's shoulders.

Kasper felt devastated. He could only imagine how he'd feel if it had been his sister that had died.

Syeira approached the dais, and she began to speak with Aelin and Rowan in quieted, hushed tones. Leta drew back, nodding at them both, and searched the assembled mass of ladies and lords. Her eyes fell on Channon and Kasper and softened. She made her way over to them, unclasping her cloak and slinging it through the crook of her arm.

She sat down beside Kas. "Hey," she said quietly.

"Hey." He glanced at her mud-spattered boots. "Where've you been?"

"I needed to take a walk," she said. "Clear my head." She glanced at Channon. "You might want to consider doing the same thing."

"Did it help?" Channon croaked.

She gave him a small, sad smile. "Not much," she replied. "But it was nice to get away. If only for a little while."

Kasper flicked his gaze to Syeira. "What the hell is going on there?"

Leta opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. Sniffed.

"Gods almighty, Kas," she said, shaking her head.

"I'll have you know I hold my alcohol very well," Kasper said. "I'll be fine."

She massaged her temples with her index fingers. "I don't know why she's here," she said. "I assume she'll tell Mom and Dad. Hopefully there's no new crisis."

Kasper looked back at the thrones, where Syeira was arguing animatedly with his parents. "Yeah," he echoed. "Hopefully."

Leta studied him for a long time, eyes steady and even. Her gaze was so different from their mother's and Aedion's; it held no bright fire, no sparkling embers. It was an unwavering flame, constant and present and _there._

"Go up to your room, Kas," she said. "Take a bath. Change your clothes. Get something to eat."

"I—"

She stood, tugging his sleeve and pulling him over to the side. Channon didn't even seem to notice; he just stared at an indistinct spot on the wall in front of him.

"You can't let yourself fall apart right now," she said, softly but not gently. Kasper blinked. "This is not our time."

"Bullshit," Kasper said. "I knew her. She was _my_ cousin—"

"She was Channon's _sister_ ," Leta said. "Channon's sister, and Lysandra and Aedion's daughter. Of _course_ I'm mourning her, Kas; she was…" She stopped herself abruptly, pressing a hand to her forehead. "We're all grieving. But right now, they need somebody to lean on, not the other way around."

Kas's protests died on his lips.

"Grieve, Kas," she said. His throat tightened. "I _loved_ her, but—" Leta swallowed, looking over at Lysandra and Aedion, clinging for dear life to each other. "They need us to be strong for them right now."

Kas stared at her.

"Go upstairs," she said. "Clean yourself up. I'm going to try to get Channon to do the same."

"Okay," Kasper whispered. "Okay."

He left the throne room, conscious all the while of a pair of pyrite eyes boring holes into his back.

—

 **SYEIRA**

Syeira stared at the door and took a deep, calming breath. _You can do this,_ she thought.

She didn't know why or how she'd found herself at the door to Kasper's room. Maybe she just had nowhere else to go.

She lifted her hand and knocked.

The guards stared at her curiously, and Syeira heard a muffled voice call, " _I'm coming, hold on"_ from inside.

A moment later, a lock turned, and the door swung open to reveal Kasper in an undershirt and trousers, hair still damp from a bath.

He stared at her. His eyes were swollen and puffy, and he seemed to be in the middle of shaving his face; half his chin was covered in fine, golden stubble. He leaned against the doorjamb. "Well," he said. "Isn't this a surprise."

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

The old Kasper would've winked. Even Syeira, having known him for so little time, knew that. But this Kasper was weighted down by grief and sorrow and the responsibility of a country and a continent about to be at war, and he just sighed and stepped away, walking back into his room.

After a beat, she followed, shutting the door with a _click_ behind her.

His rooms were nice, she thought, stepping tentatively into his sitting room. Furnished in the royal colors of Terrasen, with fine furniture and gilded paint. Though his chambers weren't exactly… typical. Her eyes fell on an appalling collection of weapons, at least twenty large; daggers and swords and armor of all varieties. He probably had another stash near the training rooms.

In the corner of his room was a piano, black and shiny. She stared at it.

"Do you play?" she asked, inclining her head toward the instrument.

Kasper peered back over his shoulder. His back was to her, and she could see the faded scars of whip marks on his tanned, even skin. "Yes," he replied, walking over into another room—his bedroom, likely.

Syeira stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, wringing her hands.

She'd just been chewed out by Rowan and Aelin, and she was still in her stupid healer clothes, and she just felt… _Dallie…_

Kasper came back into the room, a doublet slung over his arm. "Why are you here?" he said abruptly, setting it on the back of the couch.

He'd gotten taller since she'd seen him last. Taller, and more… defined.

"I don't know," Syeira said, looking down at the floor.

"Don't give me that shit," he barked. "I want the truth."

She tugged off her headwrap, tying it into a knot in her hands. "You mean why I am I in Terrasen or why I am in your room?"

"Both."

"I didn't want to go home," she said, looking out the window. "I couldn't."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Syeira—" he growled.

"Stop being such an ass," she snapped, a bit of her old fire coming back. "I didn't want to go back because I felt inadequate, alright? You of all people should know the pressures of a crown."

Kasper stared at her. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he said finally.

Her mouth opened. "I'm sorry, but have I done something to _offend_ you?"

He stalked toward, and she scrambled back, almost against her will, pressing her back against the wall. He towered over her, jaw ticking erratically. "You think _you_ feel inadequate? How the _hell_ do you think _I_ feel?"

Her breathing became jagged, uneven. He was so close that she could smell his aftershave wafting off of his skin, clean and boyish-smelling.

"Kasper—"

"Don't try to pretend like we have anything in common," he snarled. "Because we don't. You and I are _nothing_ alike."

She jerked back as if she'd been slapped.

He whirled, but she wasn't about to let him walk away. Not after that.

"Hey, you royal _dick_ ," she shouted. "I get that you're grieving, or whatever—"

"No," he said shortly. "That's just it. You don't. You're never going to get what it's like to be me, Syeira."

"And you're never going to get what it's like to be _me_ —"

He laughed derisively. "I know exactly who and what you are," he said. "A spoiled little brat who's too afraid of real responsibility to face it."

Her retort evaporated on the tip of her tongue.

Silence fell between them, empty and echoing and wide.

Kasper sagged, propping himself up against the piano, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean that. I'm—you don't deserve this."

"No. No, I don't," she said coldly.

"I'm a disaster right now," Kasper said. "I just… I've seen and done some fucked-up things, Syeira. You don't know the half of it. But Dallie, there—" His features crumpled. "Maybe I'm a weak bastard. I don't know."

"You're _not_ ," she said, astonished, forgetting for a moment to be furious. "Kasper."

He looked out the window. "Maybe you should go."

"The hell I am," she said, walking forward and putting her hands on his shoulders. He startled, eyes finding hers. " _Kasper._ There are very few people that could endure what you have gone through and live to laugh."

"I'm a fraud," he said hoarsely.

"No," she said, giving him a strained, watery smile. "You're not. I'm a fraud myself—I can tell the difference."

He sat down heavily on the piano bench, out of her hands, and she let him fall, folding over beside the glossy ivory keys.

"I've always wanted to play an instrument," she said, running her hand along the edge.

Kasper didn't protest the subject change. Maybe they both needed something lighter to ease the weights settled on their shoulders.

"Why didn't you?" he asked wearily.

"Not enough discipline," she replied. "My sister, though—Calynn—she can play better than almost anyone else I know."

"My mother wanted me to learn," he said. "Leta too, but she never had much aptitude for it."

She sat down beside him. His hands were not beautiful; they were wrecked, marred with the scars of shackles and scabs, bruised and worn from practice.

"Play something for me," she said.

He huffed a laugh. "I'm not very good."

"I don't care," she said. "Do it anyway."

He sighed, his fingers settling into a position on the keys, splayed out over the black-and-white. His foot searched beneath the piano for the right pedal, and he pushed it a few times, testing its weight.

He began to play.

He was not an expert. Kasper was proficient, if that. Still, there was something oddly comforting about the slow, lazy waltz he eked out.

He finished, hands dropping to his sides, but before they fell in his lap, Syeira caught them.

She examined the scars and scratches, new and old. "I have an ointment that might help," she said at last. "With the scars, I mean. If you want it."

He shook his head, withdrawing from her grasp. "I like my scars," he said. "They serve as a reminder."

"Like your sister's tattoo," she said. "And your mother's."

He hesitated. "Kind of," he said. "Their scars serve a different purpose, I think. They remind them of people. But mine…" He tapped a scar on his knuckles, an old one. "That's when my father taught me how to pull a proper punch. I did it wrong and almost broke all the bones in my hand. This, one, here"—he tapped to a slice on his palm—"that one was when I accidentally grabbed a knife by the blade."

She pointed to a scar on his forearm—jagged and thin, slender and white. "What about this one?"

He exhaled. "That one's from Maeve," he said.

If Syeira had been a different person—perhaps a better person—she would have left it at that. But she wasn't, so she said, "What happened?"

For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. "Fingernail scratch," he said at last, and she knew it wasn't the whole story, not even close, but still. It was something.

"You never answered my other question," he said.

"Which was?"

"Why did you come to my rooms? I'm sure you were given some of your own."

Syeira exhaled, and said, "I had nowhere else to go."

She didn't know what it was, but something about Kasper made her want to be honest—good. Better than she was.

He nodded, and this time his fingers found hers, squeezing it tightly. "Tomorrow's her funeral," he said.

"I know. I'm going."

"Good."

"You were right, earlier," she said. "About me being a spoiled brat."

He didn't contradict her.

"I'm trying," she said, breath snagging. "To get better. To be something more."

He squeezed her hand once more before letting it go. "Then that's all that matters," he replied, standing up from the piano bench, and Syeira couldn't help but watch him, bathed in the sunlight, her chest contracting painfully at the scars rippling down his back, his calves, his arms, his hair curling at the nape of his neck.

"You can stay here, if you want," he said, avoiding her gaze as he shrugged his doublet on. "There's not much to do, but—"

"Thank you," she said, standing. "But I think I'd better go back to my own rooms."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, midway through buttoning up his shirt, before inclining his head. "Alright."

She started to walk out of the room, but his voice stopped her even as her hand landed on the doorknob.

"You're not inadequate, Syeira," he said, surprisingly steady and even. "You're many things, but you're not that."

She nodded, just once, before opening the door and leaving his rooms.

—

Syeira didn't go to her rooms. Instead, she went to the temple.

Syeira had always found the temple comforting—the rush and hush of voices, whispers and murmurs, the rustle of robes and parchment and the scent of smoky incense and ink. The statues of the gods and goddesses lined up in their neat, orderly row, frozen in time in a portrait of grace and holiness and infallibility.

She'd tugged her hair free of her praid, propriety be damned, and her curls hung around her shoulders in a disaster of knots and snarls, ebony strands dangling in front of her eyes, obscuring her vision.

She should go back to her rooms—she should take a bath, compose herself. Figure out what to do next.

Syeira was not a religious person. She liked the physical, surface-level things about temple, smells and sounds and tactility, not worship and devoutness.

But just then, she felt the urge to pray.

The palace temple was magnificent, as she probably should have anticipated. The building was lined with stained-glass windows, each depicting a different god, with alcoves carved into the stone below for offerings. Some were more ornate than others: the hollow for Mala was lined with gold leaf, shining with dozens of offerings, lit with at least thirty-some tapers. It made sense, Syeira supposed; both Rowan and Aelin claimed heritage from Mala, and Leta and Kasper by association. Farnor, too, had a heap of gold at his statuette's feet. He was the god of war; of course he would be revered under the reign of a warrior king and queen.

She ticked the other gods off mentally as she strode down the rows. The Great Goddess, Hellas, Lumas, Annieth, Deanna. Syeira paused, on impulse, at the comparatively neglected alcove for Temis, goddess of wild things.

She dug into the coin purse at her waist and deposited three gold coins on the ledge. They winked in the sputtering dark.

She turned her attention to the pulpit at the back of the church. Beside it, bedecked with wreaths of flowers and silk cloth, was a tiny wooden coffin.

Syeira had known that Dallie's body would be here—Aelin had said as much. And yet, the sight of the little, open coffin hit her like a blow, far worse than even Kasper's painful truths.

It was so, so small.

A group of noblewomen clustered around the casket, bowing their heads and paying their respects. A priestess observed, thanking each with a nod.

Syeira took a deep breath, fisting her hands in the coarse wool of her skirts, and ascended the steps toward Dallie's corpse. She had to wait in line, hands clasped, but there was no one else behind her. It was getting late, shafts of light the shade of a rotted plum falling through the stained-glass portraits of the gods.

Still, when it was her turn to pay her respects, she wasn't ready for the sight that awaited her. Not even close.

They'd used some sort of ointment to preserve her body, and were it not for the horrible bruises on Dallie's slender neck, Syeira could've mistaken the girl for sleeping.

She was like a porcelain doll Syeira had had when she was little (despite her mother's protests): skin like cream scraped off the top of a milk pail, translucent eyelids; a spill of golden silk for hair.

Syeira reached out and took Dallie's cold, slender fingers. She didn't know if she was suppose to do that—if she was even allowed to touch her, but…

It felt right.

"I didn't know you well," Syeira said, closing her eyes. A tear seeped down her cheek. "We only met a few times, and I… I don't think I ever did anything to deserve any measure of love, or respect. I don't think I've ever done anything to deserve that from anyone.

"I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely. "Sorry that whatever we did at Morath, it wasn't enough to save you, to keep this from happening. I hope… I hope that you're in a better place now. I don't know what or where that would be, but—" She wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve, and the cloth came away stained black by her runny kohl eyeliner. "I guess that's something we say to ourselves to comfort us, you know? To comfort the ones that got left behind.

" _Left behind,"_ she repeated bitterly, suddenly taken by the phrase. "Sometimes I wonder what the more painful alternative is—being the one taken away, or being the one abandoned. I know Rowan would've swapped places with Aelin in a heartbeat, and Kasper and Aelin, while they were in Sollemere… I've heard stories. About both of them begging to be the one to take the lashes instead." She sniffled. "Who knew there were people that brave—that selfless?

"Even Raiden—Rai, who I never thought…" She trailed off. "But then, I should have, shouldn't I? I should've known that he would do something like that, so stupidly heroic and idiotically brave. But I didn't. I only saw what I wanted to see in him. I took what I wanted and I didn't care about the rest. What does that say about me?" Syeira gripped Dallie's knuckles tighter. Somehow, it was easy to confess Syeira's darkest thoughts to this dead girl, easier than it had ever been to a living person. "What does that say about me?

"The truth is," she said, voice quavering, "I don't know anymore. I went to Torre Cesme because I wanted some purpose, and now I can heal, and use magic to make a man walk again, but… it doesn't matter, does it? We don't need healer queens. We need warrior queens. And none of this has anything to do with you, except…" Her lower lip trembled. "Except, if I were worth anything—anything at all—I'd be able to bring you back. I wouldn't be so fucking _worthless._ "

She pressed her forehead to the lacquered wood of the coffin, breathing hard, tears coming fast.

"I heard they sing songs in the Old Language at funerals in Terrasen," Syeira rasped at last. "What a beautiful, morbid thing—to remember ancient ways in the only things that matter. Death, love, and birth. And war."

Dallie's hand was limp and clammy, slick with Syeira's sweat. She gave no reply.

"I wish they didn't have to sing them," Syeira whispered. "I wish there was no funeral at all."

 _I wish, I wish, I wish._

Syeira gazed at her fingers, holding Dallie's lifeless knuckles, and she _wished,_ more than anything else, that she could somehow suck the death out of Dallie's veins and bring it upon herself, as if her Crochan blood could heal the wounds of Hellas.

And then she felt it.

A tug.

A promise.

A deliverance.

A damnation.

Syeira choked suddenly, blood dribbling from her lips, and she felt a horrible, terrible blackness seep through her fingers from Dallie's. She felt rather than saw the bruises appear on her neck; distantly registered the priestess run toward her as she arched her back and _screamed,_ because this was pain as she had never felt before, pain that felt like crude oil jammed down her throat, suffocating her, _not enough air, not enough air,_ as if she were _choking_ —

 _Screaming screaming screaming screaming_

" _Someone get a healer! Fetch the king!"_

" _What in the rutting hell—"_

" _Hold her down, hold her down! Get her hand off the girl—"_

But Syeira didn't let go. Somehow, she knew, even through the pain that burned and ripped and tore at her insides, that to do so would sever the fragile thread linking her to life and living and breath.

With her free hand, she clawed at her throat, scraping until her fingernails felt moist with her own blood, screaming and screaming and screaming—

 _Snap._

An audible crack echoed through the temple.

Syeira didn't feel anything anymore.

A stone floor was pressed against her cheek, and she supposed it should have felt cold, but it didn't. It felt like… nothing.

She knew, somehow instinctively from the blood that ran through her veins, that she was paralyzed from the neck down. Her neck should have broken—perhaps it did, for a second, but her blood worked quickly enough to only paralyze her.

Feeling slowly seeped into her bones. It was excruciating, pins-and-needles with dagger points skittering up and down her spine. She coughed once, twice, spitting something black and foul out of her mouth.

A group of priestesses and choir boys were staring at her, eyes wide. Two of the boys let out vulgar curses, scrambling backwards as she blinked, propping herself up on her forehead. Even the priestesses backed away.

Behind the dais were a series of windows, unmarred, glossy, and reflective. In them she saw her face.

Her eyes were solid blocks of black. Not gold, but _black._

That was new.

Her neck was ringed with a gold scar, glowing fervently, wrapped around her throat as if marked by a noose. And her hair—her hair had a single, prominent streak of ash-white near her left temple, curling and frizzy. Age-brittled.

For the first time in her live, Syeira Crochan-Havilliard didn't give a shit about her appearance.

She scrabbled over the floor, crawling to Dallie's coffin weakly, breaths coming in wheezing pants. She murmured a silent prayer, her heart beating fast as a startled rabbit's caught in a snare—

Dallie was unmoving, still. Frozen: a tiny perfect porcelain doll. But her scars were gone.

Syeira crumpled, but at the last second, something caught her eye.

There—faint. Almost invisible.

The rise and fall of a breath.

Dallie opened her eyes, and Syeira bit back a shriek.

They were not her lovely Ashryver eyes anymore. The irises were pale as seed pearls woven into the skirt of a wedding gown.

"Syeira?" Dallie croaked.

* * *

 **A/N: So there's that.**

 **REVIEW THANK YOU LIST TIME! AHHHHHH! :D**

 **silverstargenesis ( YES. A lot of what happened over the past two years will be revealed gradually. As far as the length issue goes, I can tell you that Part III (this part) will be the last part in the story, but it will probably also be the longest, if that makes sense. It'll take the story all the way through the end of Erawan and defeat/victory [insert ambiguous question mark here]).**

 **salzkuu (Mother bonding time coming ASAP, promise. Well, maybe not ASAP, but IT'LL HAPPEN. And trust me, if you're a horrible person, I'm right there with you. We can start a club.)**

 **Aelinashg19**

 **pomxxx (Orion and Dallie were introduced for a reason, never fear.)**

 **Guest**

 **Guest**

 **KayGe08**

 **kittysner9**

 **Guest**

 **Anonymous (Deanna herself will play an important role in the story. Next chapter, there'll be some significant hints about her involvement, and the involvement of other gods.)**

 **Dacowluva (x3 AHHHHH)**

 **Nini29 (x2 *delighted pterodactyl noises*)**

 **I'm 2k words into the next chapter, so it should (hopefully, depending on the apocalyptic-levels of schoolwork) be up by Saturday! If I'm productive (which, let's face it, probably not) I'll try to get it up before then. Idk.**


	18. Chapter 17

**A/N: Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone! :) I was going to wear green today, but then I forgot. Oh, well. Judging by the amount of green worn at my school today, I'm ninety percent sure that the rest of the student body was too busy stressing out to remember, too.**

 **Ah, youth.**

 **Anyway, I'm back with Chapter 17, which isn't super long, but again, oh well. Spring break for me is coming up soon (it's like the week after next for me), and I'm going to try to get a chapter or two done then. Hopefully I can write one this weekend to post next week, too.**

 **Hopefully. (Assuming la escuela de la mierda isn't too harsh. I have both a test on molar conversions and a test on logarithms today, and I am just not having it. Send help. SOS.)**

 **Thank you again to all my lovely reviewers—who seemed to be greatly mollified, lol. Dallie's situation will be… interesting. Very.**

 **RECAP: Syeira recently decided it would be a fab idea to bring Dallie, who had been mysteriously hanged along with a few other soldiers by some monster cronies, back to life.**

 **This had some unexpected results… such as a strand of white hair near Syeira's temple, a scar around her neck, and solid black eyes.**

 **Nobody really knows what it did to Dallie yet.**

 **Kasper is still struggling with the particulars of his relationship with Syeira (who is blissfully unaware that she is his mate), and Leta is still having her weird secret-note, out-at-all-hours thing. Not to mention Aedion and Lysandra are/were wading in grief.**

 **ENJOY! :D**

—

CHAPTER 17

 **SYEIRA**

It had been five hours, and Syeira was still freezing. She felt as if an ice bucket had been dumped over her head, dousing not her clothes but her ribcage. Someone had wrapped a warm fur blanket around her shoulders—Aedion, she had thought—but it hadn't helped. It was the kind of cold that came not from outside but rather from within, emanating from her bones. Syeira had never minded the cold before; it had called to the ice magic lingering in her chest. But this… this was different.

She sat on a cot in a crowded room in the infirmary. The room was crammed for a space meant only for two beds, brimming with Rowan, Aelin, Leta, Kasper, Channon, Lysandra, Aedion, and Dallie. Lysandra was curled up on the bed with her daughter, stroking and smoothing her hair, Aedion standing over them with his arms folded. Channon leaned against the wall beside him, perhaps consciously or unconsciously mimicking his father's stance.

Rowan and Aelin sat on a pair of chairs at the foot of Syeira's bed, the former with his head in his hands. Leta was crouched on the floor beside Dallie's cot, watching Syeira with narrowed eyes.

Kasper had fallen back against the doorjamb, features inscrutable. The one person that Syeira cared to read was blank and carefully expressionless as the slab of marble they had intended for Dallie's headstone.

The past few hours had been a whirlwind. They'd brought both Dallie and Syeira to the infirmary, checking both frantically, stunned. Syeira's heart had taken a long, long time to calm, and she continuously hacked up black blood, which she figured probably wasn't a promising sign. The gold scar around her neck had faded somewhat, and her eyes had returned to their normal color, but the frizzy bit of hair near her forehead was still present, white as the crisp cotton sheets over the cot's simple, utilitarian mattress.

They had been summoned gradually. First had come Aedion, frantic and pale, and close behind him Lysandra with Channon in tow. Next had been Aelin, her shouts heard from the main hall of the infirmary, a rather impressive and curdling slew of expletives for a queen, and shortly thereafter Rowan, who had behaved similarly—with an even worse verbiage.

Syeira had picked up a few new phrases she hoped to use at the next possible opportunity.

Leta had come after, and after her Kasper. He had slipped into the room almost unnoticed, furtive and silent and unobtrusive.

No one had said anything yet, save for Aedion and Lysandra conferring panickedly with the healers and the king and queen's profanities. Syeira was curled up on her bed in the fetal position, a rag clutched in her hand, spotted with the inkish sludge she hacked up periodically.

It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, Aelin that broke the quiet.

"What," she said, "the _fuck_ happened?"

It was clear the inquiry was addressed to Syeira; all heads swiveled in unison to stare at her. She felt their gazes like little fishhooks prodding into her skin.

"I don't know," she wheezed, pausing to retch into her cloth. It was dirtied now, damp enough to leave streaks of moisture on her palm.

Kasper neatly unfolded himself from his lazy, cocked position near the door and strode over to the end table, lifting a pitcher and pouring a glass of water. He handed it to Syeira, along with a new kerchief.

She blinked at him, thankful, as he took her other rag and deposited it in the wastebin at her feet. She accepted the new cloth and water, swallowing.

Aelin watched her son with slitted pupils. There was something cat-like about her, Syeira thought. And terrifying as hell.

She knew something about terrifying mothers, and for a moment she shared an unspoken bond with Kasper and Leta.

"Tell us what you _do_ know, then," said Rowan too quietly. He, too, was watching his son and Syeira, and something tense seemed to set into his shoulders when Kasper sat down on the bed beside her.

Kasper had a comforting presence. This close, she could smell the faint scent of pepper and rosemary wafting off his boyish skin. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

"I was holding Dallie's hand," she said, studying the the sleeping girl. Dallie seemed almost comatose—Syeira wasn't sure whether they _could_ wake her if they wanted to. "And I remember…" She licked her lips. She could feel Kasper's rapt attention on her, and she clung to him, of all people, almost instinctively. "I wished that I could bring her back, that I could use my magic to suck her injury into me and… fix it."

"Has this ever happened before?" asked Leta from the floor. Her head was tilted faintly, and Syeira was reminded of a predatory bird, the cocked throat of a raptor or osprey or hawk. Perhaps all three.

"No," Syeira said, voice gone hoarse with blunt, stunned honesty. "I've performed healing with my… abilities on other people plenty of times, but I never… I never got close to a cadaver." Aedion flinched. "I didn't know… that I could do this. That it was even possible."

"There are stories," Rowan said, shoulders sagging.

Aelin's head whipped toward him. "Pardon me?" she said, razor-edged.

He rubbed his eyes. "Old Crochan queens that had the ability to bring the dead back to life," he said. "Keep in mind the last I heard of one with the power to do so was…" He hesitated, searching for the right word. "When I was a boy."

"Which was how long ago?" Syeira whispered.

"Three hundred years," answered Aelin, earning a dour look from Rowan.

Syeira's jaw dropped. "You're _three centuries old_?" she sputtered at the king.

"Yes," he said tautly. "I am."

"And what did the specifics say about those queens?" asked Lysandra, still stroking her daughter's hair. "And the people that they… revived?"

"I don't know," said Rowan. "It was just that. Rumors, hearsay. Nothing more. There might be texts in the library or the temple—if not here, than in the Crochan Kingdom."

"Manon might know," said Aelin contemplatively, eying Syeira. "The library at Rifthold might have something, too."

Syeira's heart lurched at the thought of her Ironteeth mother.

She was in such deep shit.

She began to shake, not just from the cold that encased her, panic setting into her veins. What did it mean? She felt _different_ , and not just cold. Like she'd been fundamentally _altered,_ something in her changed irrevocably.

What had she done to herself? What had she done to _Dallie_?

Kasper's hand fell on her shoulders, and she drooped. His skin was hot, like a living flame, shocking her with staticity, and it warmed her skin, if only for a moment. "Shit, you're cold," Kasper said, easing her up into a sitting position and placing the back of his hand against her forehead. His movements were mechanic, the ministrations of a nurse or parent, but still Syeira's stomach flopped, startled by the touch of Kas's skin on hers.

She blinked at her own thoughts. _Kas._ Not Kasper; _Kas._

It… fit.

"Mom, Dad, feel this," Kasper interrupted. Clearly, he was not having her same existential crisis. "She's cold as ice."

Reluctantly, Aelin stood up and walked over to Syeira, batting her son's wrist away. Her hand, too, was unusually warm. _Aelin of the Wildfire,_ Syeira thought absentmindedly.

"We need Lorcan," Rowan said, reaching over and doing the same. He was surprisingly easy and efficient, the movement of checking her temperature practiced.

Aelin gave him a withering glare. "Why in the burning hell would we need Lorcan—for any purpose, at all, whatsoever?"

"Well now," Aedion said blandly from the other side of the room.

"He's been blessed by Hellas," Rowan answered. "I've always suspected—and others have as well—that he has some heritage to the god. Like you and I and Kas and Leta have to Mala; like the Lochans have to Annieth."

"I thought he was bastard-born," said Kasper. "Something of a street rat."

"He was," Rowan agreed. "But that doesn't mean he didn't have a parent that had heritage in high places."

"Or, be as it may, low," Aedion corrected wryly.

"But why does that concern me?" Syeira asked.

"Because you just wandered into Hellas's realm," Rowan answered.

"I didn't, though," she said. "I didn't _go_ anywhere."

Rowan raised his eyes heavenward. "Of course not physically," he said patiently. "But what you did should be impossible for anyone except for Hellas, even his consort. Whether you realize it or not, you're tied with Hellas now—unalterably. The kind of tie that can never be broken."

"Maybe she's been blessed by the gods, too," Lysandra said quietly. Aelin scoffed, but Lysandra continued, "What? Is it so impossible?"

"It's not," Aedion said, scrutinizing Syeira. "Hellas and Lumas. Interesting combination."

The god of the underworld and the god of light, of healing.

"And Temis," Kasper added. The goddess of wild things.

Syeira glanced at him, startled, remembering her offering in the temple, and Aelin sneered. "Now _that_ I can believe."

Rowan snorted in agreement.

Syeira bristled. "Look," she said. "I get that I'm kind of a bitch"—Rowan and Aelin exchanged surprised, appreciative looks, as if astonished but pleased that she had admitted it—"but I did just save Dallie's life, and because of it, I'm coughing up black blood and I feel like my veins are freezing over, so can you all give it a _rest_?"

Silence.

"Thank you," Aedion said, voice low, at last. "This is—twice now, that you've saved my children. Thank you."

Lysandra swallowed. "We will forever owe you a debt," she said roughly.

Rowan and Aelin appeared to be mildly chastised, which was a reward in itself.

Syeira doubled over, seized by a sudden coughing fit. This one was worse than the last few had been; it lasted a long while, her body trembling with the strain. Aedion straightened, alarmed, and both Rowan and Aelin stiffened.

A hand landed on her back.

It was warm, calloused. _Kas._

He held her, gently, and Syeira reflected that no one, not even her parents, had held her so gingerly before. She had never been treated like an object that could, like all others, break—like she was not invincible and insurmountable as her swaggering persona seemed to suggest, but fallible, able to shatter.

Perhaps not easily. But able to shatter all the same.

It was, shockingly, the most wonderful sensation, like somehow, through that gentleness, Kasper seemed to say that he didn't expect for her to be the perfect paragon, that it was alright that she was hurting and coughing, that she wasn't inadequate at all.

"Shh," Kas said, rubbing her back. "It's alright. I've got you."

She didn't think he was aware or even registered the other people in the room. Both Aelin and Rowan tensed, Aedion and Lysandra cracked their heads around, and Syeira was reminded even through her wracking coughs that she was in a room full of weapons far sharper than she.

But it was hard to be worried, even as her throat and chest ached, when Kasper held her, steadying her shoulders, and told her that he had her, that it was alright.

Syeira realized that she had been in a free-fall for some time now, and though she could not see the bottom, she knew that someone below was there to catch her.

She had the sudden urge to cry.

She had been taught from a very young age that she didn't need anybody to catch her, and perhaps she didn't, but it was so overwhelmingly, inexplicably _nice_ that there was someone waiting at the bottom anyway, just in case.

The coughing subsided, finally, her handkerchief sopping with black blood. Kasper took it, unaffected, and put it in the wastebin, reaching for another in the drawer beneath the end table. He handed it to her, his hands dropping away from her back.

She met his gaze. He didn't say anything, but she saw his eyes search her face, as if assessing that she were still in one piece.

Rowan cleared his throat.

"Did you ever see anything like this at Torre Cesme?" he said, ostensibly referring to the drenched kerchief. His tone was odd, though, dagger pointed. Aelin examined her fingernails, glowering at both of them through snake-like eyes.

Leta pressed a hand to her mouth, as if suppressing a smile.

"No," Syeira said. The words came out ragged and raspy, and Kasper immediately went to get her another glass of water. She took it thankfully, downing it in one swallow. It helped, if only marginally. "Never."

"Of course," Aelin muttered.

"The healers here won't know either, then," said Kas.

"They might," Rowan countered. "You never know."

"But," Aelin said, albeit reluctantly, "I'll go tell the scholars to start looking for information in the library. Assuming it persists."

Syeira leaned back against the pillows, lightheaded and woozy. Kasper set his mouth, glancing her way with a crease between his eyebrows.

"She needs rest now," said Rowan. "Dallie too."

It was a tacit command for them to leave. Leta rose in a graceful, fluid movement that made Syeira hate her, Leta's hair swinging neatly into place.

"I'll stay," Kasper said.

Her eyes widened owlishly, but she couldn't help from smiling, though it was weak.

"I'm sure Syeira wants some peace and quiet," Aelin said.

"It's fine," Syeira said, shaking her head. "I don't mind." She reached out and grasped Kasper's hand. Her white fingers, scarred from lye and tinctures and poultices, seemed to match his own scarred hands and forearms. "Thank you, Kas."

The nickname fell from her mouth unbidden, and it didn't go unnoticed. It was Kasper's turn to look owlish, and a small, slight smile curved up on one side of his mouth, lopsided and crooked.

"Even so," Rowan interrupted. There was a feral gleam in his eye that made Syeira shrink back, her hand falling to her side. "Let's go, Kasper."

Kas didn't protest, seeming to sense that to do so would be fruitless. When he got to his father's side, Rowan put his hand on his son's back, forcefully propelling him out of the room. The rest filed out with a nod at Aedion, Lysandra, Channon, and Dallie. Only Leta bothered to give Syeira a slight incline of her head and a faint smirk.

And then Syeira was left alone, with nothing but the faint sound of Dallie's breathing and the rustle of Aedion and Lysandra's murmurs, her skin still faintly pulsing with warmth where Kasper had touched her.

—

 **DALLIE**

 _In the dream, Dallie was standing in the middle of a battlefield._

 _She had the sense that she was floating—hovering above the carnage and dead bodies, as if she were watching from above like the vultures circling overhead. The sky was blindingly bright, waves of sweltering heat curling up from the ground in thick plumes. The terrain was desert-like; packed, crumbling dirt spattered and smeared over the faces of blood-and-sweat-soaked soldiers._

 _The battle was over, and in the middle of the field crouched a man._

 _He was handsome, with cinnamon skin and dark, curling locks; impenetrable eyes and a set to his muscled form that made Dallie peer closer._

 _He was Fae. That much was certain._

 _He was also screaming._

 _He was prostrate on the ground, retching and screaming like Dallie had never seen or heard before. He was weeping, too; great, heaving sobs that made Dallie's stomach twist._

 _The Fae looked so unbreakable, so insurmountable, that Dallie couldn't help but wonder what had managed to shatter him._

—

Dallie opened her eyes.

The last thing she remembered was a dense fog curling around her shoulders, the sense of wading through a river, the water brackish and muddy—and a shore on the other side, shimmering too faintly for her to make out.

And then a hand had reached out of the water, fingers slender and raw, and Dallie had taken it.

Before that… before that, there had been beasts with leathery wings and yellowed fangs, and a rope around her neck. Dallie remembered… she remembered them cackling that she was too little to hang properly, and she had scrabbled in the air, slowly suffocating to death, while the other soldier's necks had broken.

But this was not the river-world. This was home; the infirmary, and her mother's arms were wrapped around her, and her father slept at the foot of her bed. Channon sat in the corner, dozing in an armchair, and across the room was Syeira, fast asleep.

It felt different.

Dallie knew, in some part of her brain, that she had died and was somehow back now. She also knew that she did not quite feel alive.

She felt and heard and saw things that she hadn't while she was alive before. She saw colors surrounding the people in the room—a soft, rosy pink for Syeira, faded, worn grays for her parents, a blue tinged with yellow for her brother.

She could hear their heartbeats. She was conscious of the blood running through their veins, conscious of their tonsils fluttering faintly as they inhaled, exhaled.

It was deafening.

But most of all, she was aware of her mother _touching_ her.

Dallie was bombarded with images. Her mother, but not as Dallie knew her—as a pale, mousy creature shifting into a yowling tabby cat in a slum row house, a grizzled woman swatting her with a broom, shoving her out of the kitchen and slamming the door in her face. As a young woman, perhaps a few years older than Leta, speaking to a copper-haired girl, a knife held resolutely in Lysandra's hand.

Lysandra, on a boat, speaking to Aedion, eyes tear-filled and heavy with longing and sadness. Lysandra, on a beach, pale and heartbroken, Aedion shouting at her.

Dallie felt her mother's emotions—felt pinpricks of hot desire and sorrow, overwhelming grief and guilt and rage.

Lysandra, walking down an aisle in a white dress, Evangeline her maid of honor, Aedion standing in ceremonial battle dress at the pulpit.

Lysandra, bowed over a little boy with a tuft of brown hair nestled in her arms, batting at her cheeks and cooing.

Lysandra, cradling Dallie as a baby, Aedion curled up beside them.

Lysandra, standing on a battlefield—not at Morath, but in that strange packed-earth land, shifting into a ghost leopard and pouncing on a legion of soldiers.

Lysandra, kneeling before a coffin, sobbing as Aelin wept beside her. Dallie couldn't see inside the coffin, but she could see Lysandra clutching her wedding ring, the stones glittering mournfully in the light sluicing in through the windows.

Dallie sucked in a sharp breath, skittering away from her mother so fast that she fell on the floor. She skittered backwards even as both of her parents jerked awake, eyes wide.

"Dallie?" her father said.

"Don't touch me," she rasped, kicking her legs backwards.

Her father halted midway across the room.

She inhaled lungfuls of breath, the visions abating. Her father's color changed—became a deep, navy blue ringed with a sickly yellow.

Lysandra sat up. "Dallie, honey," she said, carefully. "Are you—"

Dallie pressed her hands to her ears. It was too loud. _Too loud._ She heard heartbeats, and pulses, and she couldn't—didn't—

"'Because I am going to marry you,'" Dallie said hollowly, remembering one of the visions.

Her father froze. So did Lysandra.

"'One day. I am going to marry you. I'll be generous and let you pick when, even if it's ten years from now. Or twenty. But one day, you are going to be my wife.'"

Syeira was awake now, staring at Dallie. "What was that?" she said, eyes flicking to Lysandra and Aedion.

"Dallie," Aedion said shakily. "How—"

"'For Wesley. For Sam. For Aelin.'"

Lysandra pressed a hand to her mouth.

Dallie lifted her eyes to meet her mother's, and Syeira backed away.

"'That,'" Dallie repeated, speaking vacantly, repeating words from long ago. "'That is what I am going to find one day.'"

No one moved. No one said a word.

"What is she talking about?" Channon asked in a trembling voice.

"She's saying things," Aedion croaked. "Things that were said twenty years ago."

"And thoughts," Lysandra whispered.

Dallie dropped her hands from her ears. She was tingling.

"Lysandra," she said.

Lysandra jumped, startled at the sound of her name from her eleven-year-old daughter's mouth.

Dallie tilted her head. The world came into focus, and she saw layers of interwoven gold strands—as if each string were a lifeline. They sprouted from every person's chest, flowering and cutting short eventually. Lysandra's was long, the reel of an immortal. Aedion's was considerably shorter.

"He was the first man you had ever killed," Dallie murmured, more to herself now. She still waded through the memories and thoughts she had shared with Lysandra, half a lifetime's worth embedded in her skin. "But he was not the last. He killed Sam, and Wesley. You loved Wesley. Even though you weren't supposed to." She met Lysandra's horrified eyes, cocking her head. "Arobynn never loved you, did he? But he loved Celaena. You always thought so."

Channon said, in a shaky voice, "Dallie, what—"

"You'd never loved anybody like you loved Aedion," Dallie said. "And it scared you. You didn't know what to do with it—how to have something so precious when you had already been swatted around, fucked too many times to count."

Aedion's eyes had gone wide as gold coins. Dallie, who had never uttered a profanity in her life, said it easily, with supreme casualness, as if it were the word _sunshine_ or _kittens._

"They called you a whore," Dallie said. "And after there was nobody left to tell you otherwise, after Sam and Wesley were gone, you believed it."

"Dallie," Lysandra said, quavering.

"I can see you," Dallie said, in a hushed tone, looking at some vacant point on the wall. "Every part of you. The day you were born. The day you'll die. All the thoughts and hopes and dreams you ever had." She met her mother's gaze frankly. The worries and pain of a child were fading away as Dallie became fascinated with the golden strings bursting from ribcages. There were multiple—a rose-tinted one extended from her father's to her mother's, linking them together. Another, similarly colored string curled from Syeira's chest and snaked out the door.

Dallie's emotions disappeared as she drank it in, the colors.

Inside of her was a girl that screamed and beat her fists, but she grew quieter and quieter.

"The worst day of your life," she said to Lysandra, "was the day that Dallie died."

It was this, more than anything, that gave everyone pause.

"Pardon?" said Syeira, sounding very small.

"She's still here," Daleka said, tapping her chest. "It's a curious thing. I can hear her. She says to tell you that she loves you—very much."

Aedion made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"Very much," Daleka repeated, growing sleepy. Crude oil filtered into the corners of her gaze as the world went black, sleep claiming her in one swift, fell blow. _Very much._

Somewhere inside, Dallie was still present, cowering in a corner—the Dallie that was horrified at Daleka, the Dallie that couldn't believe she'd just sworn, the Dallie that would never lay her mother's history as a courtesan bare.

But that Dallie grew weaker and weaker still, until Daleka could almost no longer feel her presence at all.

—

 **SYEIRA**

 _What have I done?_

—

 **ROWAN**

Rowan was in his study when the note came.

It was fine-penned, addressed from Dorian.

 _Rowan,_

 _I assume you have my daughter. I apologize on her behalf and promise to wrangle her properly when I see her next._

Rowan snorted derisively. _Too late,_ he thought sourly. His problems with Syeira these days were numerous—and far more worrying than they had been when she was fourteen.

 _I bear bad news from the south. I recently received a letter from Haneul Ytger, and he reported scoutings and news of forces stirring in the southwest—near the Bogdano Jungle, at the border of his country. Nothing concrete; only murmurings, but I felt it necessary to pass the news on, to see your take on the matter._

 _I, for one, am rather inclined to believe Haneul. He's a fair king, and he's got a level head on his shoulders. He wouldn't notify me unless he has good reason. I hope._

 _Feel free to sentence my daughter to the kitchens or dungeons. If she gets out of hand, let me know. I'll send an envoy to get her home as soon as possible, if you wish, though I strongly suspect she may already be on her way to Rifthold as I write this letter, courtesy of your discretion._

 _I sincerely hope that Haneul is wrong, but both you and I know better by now._

 _Regards to Aelin._

 _Sincerely,_

 _HRM Dorian Havilliard_

Rowan read the letter three more times before he sent for Aelin.

She arrived in his room ten minutes later than she should have, sauntering in with a cocked hip and a lazy, pointed smile. She lounged against the doorframe, but her smirk disappeared when she saw his grave expression.

"What?" she said. "Rowan, what is it?"

"I know where Erawan is," Rowan said.

She went rigid. "Don't joke about that kind of thing."

"I wasn't," he said. "I just got a letter from Dorian. There are reports and sightings of forces in the south. Near the Bogdano." He knotted his hands pensively. "It would have been easy to hide there; no one lives inside that jungle."

"Except for an army of demons," she said, cursing. She pressed her fingers to her temples, allowing herself a single second for fury and overwhelment and pain, and then rattled off her list of instructions. "Send a messenger to Perranth. I want Lorcan and Elide brought to the castle immediately."

"They're already on their way," Rowan said. "They should be here today—they came for Dallie's funeral."

"I want Gavriel brought here, too," Aelin continued. "And I want Aedion to give me a complete report of whatever forces he has in reserves and in his standing army. Now."

Rowan didn't question her. As usual, he knew what she was thinking. "You want to go after Erawan," he said. "And leave Gavriel and Lorcan here to defend Terrasen."

"We'll send more scouts out west," she said. "To defend against an unexpected attack. For now, I don't want to move the whole army south. I want to get a better idea of what's there myself. We'll take a small naval force down—first to Rifthold, then to Banjali. I want someone to notify Ansel immediately, and I need to get a letter to Dorian. Chaol has to reconnect with whatever connections he's still got in the Southern Continent, see if they'd still be willing to fight for us—and if not, how much their mercenaries would need to be paid. And I need to contact the Silent Assassins and see if they'd still be willing to fight."

Rowan stood, crossing the room in two neat strides and taking her shoulders. "Aelin. Fireheart. Breathe."

Some of the tension left her shoulders, though not as much as he would've liked.

"We'll figure it out," he said, smoothing her hair away from her face. "We always do."

Her eyes were lined with silver. "Of course we will," she said, wiping her cheeks. "But will it be soon enough to keep what happened to Dallie from happening again?"

Rowan couldn't, in good conscience, tell her it would.

He'd lost a child once. He could not lose one again. He didn't know if he'd survive it.

He opened his mouth, about to say he didn't know what, but the door to his study swung open.

A healer stood in the doorway, flushed and panicked. "Your Majesty," she said hastily, curtsying.

"What?" Aelin said, breaking apart.

"It's—the little Lady Ashryver," the healer stammered.

"Dallie?" Rowan echoed.

"That's just it," the healer said. "She says she won't be called Dallie anymore."

Rowan exchanged a startled look with Aelin before the two of them broke into a run.

—

 **LETA**

The letter was like all the others: embossed, lined with silver, elegant and ethereal.

 _Midnight. Fourteenth row of the west wing of the library, third stacks._

She sighed, committing the contents to memory, before ripping it up into tiny pieces and tossing them into the fire.

—

 **A/N: More about Dallie and Syeira's condition to come… and of course, way way way more on Leta coming ASAP. (Probably. It's coming at some point.)**

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	19. Chapter 18

**A/N: I'm back! Currently I'm procrastinating my chemistry homework (ughhhhhhhh) by updating here, which I think is an excellent tradeoff. ;) I'm not really satisfied with this chapter (I also wrote like 1/2 of it in Spanish class while we literally did nothing but watch _Inside Out_ in Spanish bc we had a sub, so that could be part of the reason), but I've proofread it like 5x and it's just going to have to work. **

**Thanks again to all the lovely reviewers! You guys are the best! :D**

 **RECAP: Raiden and Fenrys are in the middle of frickety-frack flapjack nowhere (it's a technical term) searching for Maeve, who for some ungodly reason seems to have enlisted the help of this crazy gray-skinned demon thing. Dallie's resurrection spurred some unfortunate results... one of which being that Dallie now seems to be diagnosed with multiple personality disorder and is doing this freaky thing with quoting her parents from 20 years ago, etc. Rowan got a letter from Dorian which basically said that Dorian got a letter from Haneul Ytger, the king of Eyllwe, saying that there have been sightings of Erawan near the Bogdano Jungle, so now Rowan, Aelin, Lysandra, Aedion, and their kids are going to high-tail it to Adarlan and then to Eyllwe to kick some ass (hopefully?).**

 **I think that's it for now.**

 **Enjoy! :P**

* * *

CHAPTER 18

 **EMERY**

From all outward appearances, Emery was not a particularly extraordinary person.

She was neither beautiful nor ugly, neither short nor tall. Her hair hung somewhere in the range between blonde and brunette, and her eyes were a muddled mix of colors; blues and grays and greens and browns. Her skin was dark in some lights and pale in others; her clothes were monochromatic, made of cheap wool. She was, for all intents and purposes, completely forgettable.

It was what was inside of her that made her unique—not her heart, but her mind.

Emery was brilliant, though few knew it.

She rarely did anything with her brilliance. Emery preferred to wait and observe from a distance, watch and listen and take careful notes. She blended into the background. She was clumsy, average. Unremarkable. Human.

She had lived in the same town all her life; a land far east of most established countries, a little town that she had despised with a passion since the children had thrown stones at her because she was not _like them_. And perhaps she was not, and proud of it: there was a weight to Emery's eyes, an undeniable wisdom. A note of something ancient and old curled in her pathetically human breast.

She had wanted for so long to leave, but these kinds of things were not possible with her. They never had been.

Instead she worked at a tavern in town, wiping down tables and listening to snatches of gossip. She hummed while she worked and pinned her hair back with a sticky pencil.

No one noticed Emery. Which was why, the day someone did, she noticed _them._

It was a boy. She knew he was odd even before he flagged her down; he carried himself differently than the others. There was no slack-jawed country hick accent on him, no stumble and ignorant swagger. He carried himself carefully, as if he had been taught by people more elegant than Emery could ever hope to lay eyes on, with a certain _prowl._

Emery would have known even without the sword pinned to his waist that he was a warrior. He walked like a soldier, with a deceptively casual, slinking gait.

His complexion was darker than Emery had ever seen; the shade of tulip bulbs still clotted with dirt, and his hair had a russet tint. His teeth were white, his nose faintly freckled. He was handsome, though he stuck out like a hornet in a honeyhive.

If Emery had been prone to warn, she would have told him to slouch, to talk and smile less and drink more. Then he would have fit in with the usual crowd in the pub. But she wasn't, so she didn't.

She had been untying her apron at the bar, ready to stumble home after an exhausting night, when he called her.

"Excuse me, miss?"

She had thought he was talking to someone else. She shoved her apron into a greasy cabinet.

"Excuse me?" he said again, tapping her shoulder this time. She jerked, startled, whirling.

Emery stared at him, wide-eyed. Her pulse beat erratically at the base of her throat.

"Hello," the boy said pleasantly, sticking out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

Emery didn't take it. She never shook hands.

She turned her back on him, the thrumming in her veins abating. "Ask another server if you want something. My shift's over."

"I don't," he said. "Want something, I mean. At least, not food."

She snorted, forcing herself to regain her air of aloof disdain, despite the pounding in her chest. "Then I sure as hell can't help you."

"I think you can."

She pivoted finally, halfway out the door, plopping a medium-sized hand on her medium-sized waist. "And why," she said, tone dripping with sarcasm, voice shaking only slightly, "would that be? Do you _know_ me, boy?"

"You're only a year or two older than me," said the boy. "'Boy' seems a little excessive."

"Find someone else that cares."

"Please," he said. "You're the first reasonable-looking person I've met since coming to this place."

She paused. "I don't _look_ like anything."

"You do," he said. "You look more interesting than the people back in the pub, anyway."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Where are you from?"

"Somewhere far away."

"I want specifics."

"Why?"

"If," she said, "I am going to talk to you, I want to know that you're not going to try something. And I won't do that until you've answered a few basic questions."

He held up his hands, but he was smiling. Yet there was an undeniable edge to his smile—the grin lingered on the blade of a razor, sharp as the teeth of the sharks that lingered in the water in the bay some miles east.

"Where are you from?" she repeated, tapping her foot on the floor.

"Erilea," he answered, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"That's a continent," she said. "Which country—Fenharrow, Melisande, Adarlan, Terrasen, Eyllwe? Pick one."

He blinked at her. "You're an awful far way from Erilea to know all that."

"I know a lot of things," she replied, not to boast, but because it was true.

"I'm from Adarlan," he said. "But I spent some of my childhood in the Crochan Kingdom."

Her mouth flattened. "Where in Adarlan? And what were you doing in the Crochan Kingdom? The two aren't exactly geographically juxtapositioned for convenience."

He blinked. "Quite the vocabulary."

"Loquacious lexicon," she shot back, her patience wearing thin. "Answer my gods-damned question."

"I lived in Rifthold," he said. "My parents worked for the king and queen of Adarlan. They spent every other year in the Crochan Kingdom, because—"

"I know all about Manon Blackbeak," Emery interrupted. "You moved along with the household. Fine. That was all you needed to say."

Now it was his turn to narrow his eyes. "You're very… well-educated."

"I know." She folded her arms. "What's your name?"

He hesitated. "Sal," he said evasively.

"Liar. Try again."

The boy's brows flicked up.

"I can smell a lie from a mile away," she said.

"Do you have magic?" he asked—not intrusively, but curiously.

"It doesn't take magic to figure out that your eyes slid left and you touched your nose with your thumb," she said. "Tells. Now give me your name or I walk out."

He relented. "Fine. My name is Raiden."

"Last name."

Raiden gritted his teeth. "Westfall."

She reassessed him. "The Adarlanian captain of the guard's son."

Raiden studied her. He didn't affirm her baldfaced statement, but he didn't have to.

Emery was always right. She had never forgotten anything in her life.

"Well," she said at last. "You've got my attention, captain's son. Lead the way."

—

 **EVANGELINE**

Lorcan, Elide, and Gavriel had arrived at the castle three days ago, and it was time for the king and queen to leave.

The departing party was a large one: Rowan and Aelin and their children, Lysandra and Aedion and _their_ children, Syeira Crochan-Havilliard, and a quarter of the Terrasenian navy.

Evangeline watched the boats slink out out of the river harbor from the window in her chambers, playing dolls with her daughter Cat on the floor.

They embarked for Adarlan. Meah first, then down to Rifthold; then snaking the curves of Fenharrow to Bellhaven until they reached Banjali on the Eyllwe coast. Evangeline observed the frenetic docks below with a feeling of trepidation curled in her stomach. She had learned to fear departures, especially those taken on the shifting, gray-blue seas. She had learned the hard way to treat each farewell as if it might be the last.

Her eyes snagged on a smaller body moving through the throng. Daleka Ashryver, her strides slow, even, and eerily smooth, gracefully as if she floated on a cloud of fine-powdered mist. Even from a distance, Evangeline could see the girl's colorless irises.

Evangeline had been told bits and pieces of Daleka's situation: the girl could see auras—this much a scholar had confirmed—and she could somehow peer into a person's soul when she touched their skin, envisioning past, present and, they suspected, future.

Evangeline didn't know what to make of her. There were prices, she thought, to sinking down into the realm of the dead only to resurface again.

Cat squealed, smoothing the gown of one of her dolls, and Evangeline smiled absentmindedly. It hurt, sometimes, to look at her daughter. Cat had Hadrian's face, his raw lips and his sloping cheekbones; his tumble of crimson curls. Cat's hair was _red_ in a way that Evangeline's had never been, almost violently so.

Hadrian's hair used to remind Evangeline of the poppies that had grown in the flower boxes dotting the daub walls of her girlhood home, carrying the scent of nostalgia and pollen and innocence.

Evangeline blinked suddenly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She checked the clock on the mantlepiece.

"Come on," Evangeline said, pushing herself to her feet and scooping up Cat, who let out a yowl of protest. "Time to get some breakfast, yes?"

"I want to _play_ ," said Cat petulantly. Cat was a petulant child.

"You can play later," Evangeline said, checking her reflection in the mirror before she left. She was pale, and drawn, but then again, she was always pale and drawn these days. Widow's black had not been kind to her complexion or battered soul.

Still, she paused to pick up a hair clip from the top of her dresser and pinned her copper curls back. There. That was better.

Evangeline pushed open the door, ignoring Cat's mewls of protest. She nodded to the guards standing watch outside her room and made for the stairwell leading down to the Great Hall, her skirts rustling around her ankles.

Cat began to throw a full tantrum, her cheeks turning the color of her hair. Evangeline set her teeth, hissing, "Cat, _please._ "

Her daughter paid no mind to her. She began to cry, kicking and thrashing her legs with such force that Evangeline was forced to halt on the landing of the stairs, attempting to wrestle her daughter into some form of decency.

"Catrina Lyonette Orabel," Evangeline interrupted, just as her daughter's shoe clipped her cheek.

Why, why, _why_?

"Cat!" Evangeline said again, dodging. "For gods' sakes!"

"I w-want t-to p- _play_ ," Cat sobbed, squirming like a slippery worm.

"Cat, you have to _eat_ first," said Evangeline, maintaining a steady, even tone. She loathed raising her voice to her daughter; she'd flinched away from the sound of her father's shouts enough as a girl. "And if you don't start behaving, you won't be able to play at all."

This was the wrong thing to say.

Cat let out a mutinous shriek and leapt from Evangeline's arms, making a dash for the hallway.

Evangeline stared after her four-year-old nightmare of a progeny, mouth open, before growling to herself, balling up her skirts in her fists, and running after her.

This corridor was tastefully appointed, and Evangeline caught a few odd looks from laundresses and pages scurrying down opposite her. She forced herself to smile at them, though irritation ran rampant through her veins.

"Honestly, Cat," she muttered, more to herself than to her daughter. She craned her neck, catching sight of Cat disappearing around a corner.

Evangeline hurried after her, skidding abruptly as she turned, and froze.

Cat had collided with a man.

No, Evangeline corrected herself; _male._ He was Fae, almost unfairly tall and built, with a crop of golden-brown hair and tawny eyes. His ears were pointed, and when he grinned, she caught the glint of twin incisors. He wore simple clothes, but she didn't fail to notice the weapons strapped over his lean, muscled form.

She had seen him before. She knew him.

Gavriel.

Cat had stopped her rampage, if only because she was startled that she had run into a pair of legs. Gavriel crouched, resting on his knees, wiping Cat's tear-smudged cheeks. He glanced up and met Evangeline's eyes, smiling. "Lose something?" he said drily.

Her cheeks heated, mortified. "I'm _so_ sorry," she said. "She's in a… mood."

"So I gather," observed Gavriel as her daughter attempted to resume her sprint, dodging around his massive shoulders. He simply fixed Cat with a steady, opaque gaze—his eyes were the precise yellow-green shade of a cat's—and she stilled, forgetting for a moment to be angry and hellish.

Awed, Cat stretched out one tiny hand to press against his cheek.

"That's quite enough," said Evangeline hastily, hurrying over to pluck her daughter out of Gavriel's grasp. Yet Cat had none of it; she seemed to want to stay with her new friend.

Evangeline put a hand to her temple. Tendrils of copper curled around her cheeks, escaping her hasty clip. "Cat," she pleaded. "Come on. _Please._ "

" _No!"_ Cat declared, slinging her arms around Gavriel. He blinked, startled, looking down at the little girl as if she were a foreign creature. " _Stay."_

Evangeline didn't want to deal with this. She was so tired, worn and drained and not entirely _there,_ and she couldn't face Hadrian's incurable, devilish smile and roguish air in this four-year-old girl standing before her.

Gavriel's gaze slid to Evangeline, and she swallowed. Something flickered in Gavriel's eyes, as if he guessed a little of Evangeline's pain.

"I'm sorry," said Evangeline again, because it was the only thing she could think to say.

"Do you want some help?" Gavriel asked.

She laughed a little, the sound rusty and hoarse. She hadn't laughed in a long time. "I'm sure you have better things to do with your time."

"Possibly," Gavriel admitted. "But I'll help you, if you want."

Evangeline knelt down too, prodding her daughter's shoulders. "I would accept," she said wryly, "but you'd get more than you bargained for with Cat."

Gavriel's brows flicked up swiftly. "Cat?"

"Hadrian named her," Evangeline said, her throat closing up. Her voice had caught on his name, as it always did. "My husband. He named her after his mother. Her full name is Catrina."

Gavriel studied her again. "You're Evangeline Orabel," he said. "Lysandra's ward."

"I suppose that's a name for it," Evangeline acquiesced. "Though I haven't been in some time."

His eyes lingered on her. He had almost certainly heard what had happened to Hadrian—and what had become of Evangeline as a result.

Suddenly, Gavriel straightened, hoisting Cat up into his arms. She squealed delightedly, scowl shifting to smile with the mercurial grace only a toddler could achieve. "Where are you heading?" said Gavriel.

"I was trying to get to the Great Hall," said Evangeline. "But—"

"I'll help get you two there," Gavriel said. "And then I'll go, if you wish. But you look like you could use some assistance."

Much as Evangeline didn't want to admit it, he was right. She made a pitiful picture with her black mourning gown and her messy hair, daughter running amok through the halls of the castle.

Gavriel extended a hand, and Evangeline took it, allowing him to help her to her feet. His palm was calloused and scarred—a warrior's grip.

She fell into step beside Gavriel, Cat content in his grasp. Evangeline's stomach twisted. Cat had loved, almost above all other things, being held by Hadrian. He had been the one that had soothed Cat when she had woken in the middle of the night from nightmares or the monster under her bed. He had been the one that knew all of Cat's favorite songs; he had been the one that had told Cat story after story, each more fanciful and consuming than the last.

It should have been Evangeline on the boat that day.

Hadrian was the kind of person no one really considered mortal or even fallible. How could he be? He seemed to pulse with _brightness,_ life and vivacity and laughter. He had been the heir to a shipping dynasty, a member of the famously wealthy Orabels, and had shone with promise and grace and the carefree, rebellious laugh that had made Evangeline fall head-over-heels in love with him.

Evangeline had been sixteen when she'd first met Hadrian. She'd been sitting in the gardens at the palace on a warm, breezy day in spring, twirling a rose between her fingers detachedly beneath an open blue sky, the sun catching the glints of gold in her hair. Hadrian had seen her—he'd been strolling through the hedge maze at the time—and grinned.

"Well," he'd drawled, plopping down beside her on the bench unexpectedly. She'd jumped, startled, and Hadrian had winked and plucked the rose from her fingers. He'd snapped the thorny stem in half and tucked it behind her ear. Evangeline had blushed furiously.

"You're rather forward," she said, though he hadn't really said anything. She'd heard tales about Hadrian Orabel, the filthy-rich merchant prince, and she didn't know what to do with the sudden swoop in her stomach.

He dimpled, as if guessing her thoughts. His hair curled around the nape of his neck, brilliantly scarlet, carmine as the wings of a redbird. "I haven't gotten started yet," he said. "I've seen you around before, you know."

"Oh?" Evangeline said, affecting an indifference she didn't feel.

His smile widened. "Sure," he said. "You're the prettiest girl in Orynth."

It had worked because it was simple, and because Evangeline was sixteen and easily able to fall for a handsome boy with a chiseled jaw and a musical laugh who told her she was beautiful. Still, she'd said, "That was rather disappointing."

Hadrian's smile had disappeared. "What?"

" _Well,"_ she said, mimicking his tone from earlier, "I've heard things about you, too, and I rather thought your coquetry would be more impressive."

His eyes had narrowed. Evangeline had always been good at snaring boys and men: she gave them tantalizing glimpses of what they couldn't have.

Hadrian might be able to dazzle her on the inside, but she'd never let him know it. Not until he really earned her laugh.

"I promise you," he said, "I can do much better than that."

Evangeline had leaned back, parting her lips slightly. "Prove it."

And he had. Through dances and nights drunk with starlight and love and pretty pieces of poetry, he had proved to her just how intoxicating his quicksilver tongue could be.

They'd married a year and a half later, after the battlefield at Morath had been cleared. They had both been so young, Evangeline only seventeen and Hadrian nineteen, but it hadn't seemed to matter. They'd been in love.

Evangeline had managed to snare him—untameable, incorrigible Hadrian Orabel, who had been predicted by many to forever be a shameless flirt. He loved her like he loved nothing else.

Hadrian had looked at her as if she'd reached up into the sky and brought down a handful of silver stars, and he could see them glittering in her cupped palms, rare and shining and raw.

She had been twenty-four when she'd conceived, and that was when Hadrian's gaze had turned even brighter.

He'd held her to him in their bed, his arms wrapped around her belly. "I love you," he'd whispered hoarsely. "You have given me _everything_."

Evangeline wanted to protest—he had given _her_ everything, from love to a home to money, for he cherished the scars on her cheek just as much as he cherished her heart and her stunning face—but she knew better. That was one of the many well-kept secrets of Hadrian Orabel. Despite the fact that he burned with enough sparks to set the world on fire, he didn't think very highly of himself at all.

The only person he had ever loved as much as Evangeline was their daughter. He had adored Cat, treasured her and brought her up to be just as devilish as her father.

They had lived in Suria together, in a waterfront mansion near the water. Evangeline had never wanted for anything, and she had only ever been unhappy there when Hadrian was gone, traveling with his ships, off on long voyages. He always came back with gifts. When he courted her, he'd given her each with a kiss.

When they were married, he'd given them to her with something more.

Later, he'd come back with presents for Cat, too. He'd pick her up into the air, putting him on her shoulders, and dance around, laughing as Cat giggled delightedly, even as Evangeline laughed herself and shouted for him to _stop, stop_ before he dropped her.

Hadrian never dropped Cat. His smile forbade it.

Evangeline would never forget the day that the sailors had come to her door. She'd invited them into the sun-soaked parlor, even as the blood drained from her face, because Hadrian had been late coming back from a voyage. It happened, sometimes, but Hadrian had never been _this_ late before.

And it was then that the sailors told her what Evangeline had, deep down, already known.

There had been a storm. Hadrian had gotten as many sailors as he could off the boat before he'd gone to the lifeboat himself, and by then, it had been too late.

There wasn't even a body to bury. The sea had taken that, too.

Evangeline would never forget how the ground had dropped away from her feet in that one endless, infinite moment that she was still living even now. She had suddenly found herself with no steady footing, nothing to hold on or cling to—no one there to help her back on her feet.

Hadrian had been her footing. Hadrian had been her steady ground.

Hadrian had been hers, and she had been his, and she didn't know what to do because he had taken a piece of her with him when he had sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

Hadrian—beautiful, brilliant Hadrian, who was always laughing, who smelled like the sea and whose cheeks were windburned from weeks of sailing, who was too vibrant, too lovely, too invincible, to possibly be wrenched from her grasp—was dead.

And he was never coming back.

And it was then that Evangeline's world had gone dark, snuffed out like a candle, and she had gone to bed and had not gotten up for days.

It was Lysandra, in the end, that had come for Evangeline. Lysandra had found her curled up on the floor of Hadrian's closet, holding one of his shirts to her nose, breathing in his scent and weeping.

Lysandra had wrapped her slender arms around Evangeline and held her while she cried. She had stayed with Evangeline for days, sleeping beside her like they used to when they still lived under Clarisse's thumb, and when Evangeline had woken up in the middle of the night screaming her husband's name, Lysandra had held her, had stroked her hair, had not told her it would be alright because it would not, but had been there anyway, even as Evangeline wore Hadrian's shirts to bed and pretended that he would walk in the door any second now, any moment, and smile at her and tell her that he loved her.

But he didn't. He never did.

Lysandra took Evangeline and Cat back with her to Orynth. Evangeline didn't protest. She didn't have the energy or willpower to protest.

It was in Orynth that Lysandra had told her about Wesley, and Aelin had told her about Sam, and Evangeline found that shared pain lessened the burden but never the sting, the constant aching Hadrian-shaped hole in her chest where her husband had once been.

Evangeline had started sleeping with Cat, because Cat, too, woke in the middle of the night crying out for her father.

That had been a year ago, and Evangeline still couldn't breathe.

She had woken up one morning a widow. Hadrian's brother had taken over the head of the business, and Evangeline had gotten the mansion and more money than she could ever possibly need or want.

She didn't give a damn about the money. She just wanted Hadrian back.

But he wasn't coming back.

It was that one simple phrase that she kept coming back to, again and again. _He was not coming back._

It should have been her that had died. Hadrian had been the one that Cat had loved; Hadrian had been the one that _everyone_ loved.

The way the Orabels looked at her now—like she was a piece that no longer quite fit in their extravagant family. And perhaps she didn't.

Evangeline blinked now, quickly wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist. She realized that she'd been staring at Gavriel for a long time, because he was holding Cat in a way that she had not been held since Hadrian left on that boat for nowhere, and because Cat had finally stilled.

"Are you alright?" Gavriel asked quietly.

Evangeline didn't say anything. She just wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

"Yes," she said finally, her voice hoarse. "I'm fine. Thank you."

Gavriel extended a hand to her again. This time he wasn't helping her up.

At least not physically.

She took it, but only for a moment, squeezing, focusing on the feel of scarred skin, forcing herself not to cry. Her hand dropped to her side, and without another word, she made her way down to the Great Hall, Gavriel and Cat a steady, unwavering presence at her side.

—

 **FENRYS**

"I told you," said Fenrys, "to get _information._ Not this… thing."

The girl scowled at him. She was appallingly ordinary, with average, forgettable features; brown-blonde hair, a round face, and murky, grayish eyes. Or, at least, Fenrys thought they were gray. In the damp twilight at their makeshift camp on the fringes of the brambly, scraggly forest, her face was hidden by looming shadows.

Raiden lounged against the trunk of a tree nearby, shirtsleeves straining against his biceps as he crossed his arms. Something about the set of Raiden's mouth put Fenrys in a homicidal mood—though it might also be the girl. The girl that Raiden had inexplicably brought back to the camp, grinning.

"She _is_ the information," Raiden replied. "If we want to know anything, she'll be able to tell us. She also knows her ways around these parts, which neither of us do."

"You know what would solve that problem? A _map._ "

The girl shot an accusatory glance at Raiden. "You didn't say that he'd be an asshole."

"That's because he usually isn't," said Rai, frowning at Fenrys.

Fenrys just bared his teeth. His incisors gleamed, but the girl didn't seem particularly impressed. She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath that sounded distinctly like _territorial Fae male nonsense._

"Look, Fen," Raiden said. "She can help us. Emery, tell him what you told me."

Emery scowled, displeased, but said, "I know the group of Fae that you're looking for."

Fenrys straightened, despite his misgivings. "You do?"

"Of course I do," said Emery. "They came through here about a week ago. It'd be damn near impossible not to notice them; they rented out all the rooms at the inn."

"What did they look like?" Fenrys pressed. "Did they have a leader?"

"They had a leader," Emery said. "She had purple eyes and a hell of a lot of power."

"That's Maeve," Raiden said grimly.

Fenrys's stomach dropped. Finally, after two years, they were getting close. "Do you know what they were doing this far east?"

Emery hesitated, and Raiden cocked his head, his interest piqued. Clearly he had not thought to ask this question.

"Yes," she said finally. She dragged a hand through her hair. "They were looking for something."

"Do you know what?"

"Not a _what_ ," Emery corrected. "A _who_."

A trickle of fear slid down Fenrys's spine, but Raiden only said, "What do you mean, 'who'?"

"There's a forest about a week's ride east of here," Emery said, wringing her hands. She rubbed her thumb in her palm, fingernails digging into her skin. "There's all sorts of old beasts living there. Monsters and such. Every once in awhile a few of the village boys'll go in on a dare, say they're going to slay a beast or some such nonsense."

"And?" Raiden said.

She didn't say anything for a moment, and Fenrys could hear nothing but the croaks of a far-off owl and the rustling of leaves through bare, naked branches.

"They never come back," Emery said.

"But those are village boys," Raiden said, and Fenrys knew what he was thinking: _Could the forest manage to kill Maeve and her cronies, too?_

"No," Fenrys answered aloud, and Raiden seemed to know that he was answering that unspoken question, because he slumped. "It wouldn't have killed Maeve. If she wanted something from that forest, she got it."

Emery shuddered. "I don't know about that."

"Why?" said Fenrys. "Who were they looking for?"

"I don't know the specifics," Emery warned. "No one does."

"Give it your best shot."

She huffed, but it was clear that she was shaken. Like Raiden, she was only human, though Fenrys often forgot that Raiden was mortal. Perhaps more than he should have.

"There's a woman that lives in those woods," Emery said. "Not these ones. The others." She hesitating, groping for words. "All I know is old wives' tales—rumors and gossip and hearsay. They say the woman has gray skin and horns. They say that she eats people."

Raiden glanced sideways at Fenrys. _Ironteeth?_ he seemed to say, brows raised.

Fenrys shook his head. _Not this far east._ Ironteeth witches were a race almost exclusive to Erilea, and if they did venture from the landmass, one found them in the northern stretches of the Southern Continent or in Wendlyn. They never dared go past the Cambrians in the east, and they never went further south than Antica.

"Does this… woman… have a name?" Raiden asked.

"If she does, I don't know it," Emery answered. "I've never been foolish enough to gallivant into that viper's nest."

Fenrys reconsidered her. _Gallivant._ Her tone, though accented with rural poverty, had a certain amount of polish to it, more than he'd expect from a tavern barmaid. She was clearly intelligent.

Raiden studied her, too. "Will you take us to the forest?"

"Rai," Fenrys said, startled.

"If Maeve's there, that's where we need to be," he said.

"Maeve has a force of forty Fae with her," Fenrys retorted. "And that's not even counting whatever nightmares she found in those woods."

Raiden tipped up his chin at Fenrys. A glitter of the hellraiser in him flickered through his irises, enough to make Fenrys's blood quicken. "We don't need to slaughter them," said Raiden. "I, for one, just want to know what she's getting up to."

"If you go into that forest, you won't ever come out," Emery warned.

Raiden grinned. "Oh ye of little faith."

"She's probably right," Fenrys said, much as it cost him to admit it. "Rai—"

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

He paused.

Dammit, he wanted to. Raiden knew exactly how to pull Fenrys's strings.

"I'm not bringing you there," Emery said. "No way."

"We'll come out again," Raiden said easily, shrugging. "I've been through worse."

The thing was, Raiden probably had. There were few things worse than Sollemere.

Emery, on the other hand, looked as if she doubted this very much. "I don't—"

"You want to get out of this place, don't you?" Raiden said.

Fenrys's ears pricked up. The girl slunk further into the shadows, a muscle in her jaw ticking, but neither affirmed nor refuted his statement.

"You're smart," said Raiden. "I can tell. If you help us get to the forest, we'll take you with us. Wherever we go next."

" _We most certainly will not,"_ Fenrys interrupted.

"Ignore him," Raiden said.

"It doesn't matter," Emery said, though Fenrys could tell she wanted to believe Raiden, badly. "You won't come out of the forest anyway."

Fenrys laughed, and she shrank away from him further. "Oh, we will," he purred. "You can depend on that."

Raiden sent Fenrys a glare that said, _Really?_

"If we don't," Raiden said, "you can dig through our saddlebags and take whatever money we've got, if you want."

The girl perked up at this.

"We might be your only chance," Rai continued, his persuasive, honey-smooth voice like liquid sugar even to Fenrys's ears. "You know that."

Emery chewed on her lower lip. Her eyes flicked to Fenrys. "I know who you are," she said. "And I know who he is, too."

Somehow, this didn't surprise Fenrys. He shrugged. "What of it?"

"Both of you are… warriors," said Emery, somewhat hesitantly. "Aren't you."

Fenrys's eyes flicked to Raiden's predatory stance, and was somewhat surprised to find that Raiden _was_ a warrior now, though he certainly hadn't been when Fenrys first met him. Blood and chains had changed Raiden from the scared boy quivering in the corner of the cell. "Yes," Raiden answered.

"Then teach me," Emery said, pulling herself up to her full, wholly unimpressive height.

"Teach you what?"

"How to fight," Emery said. When Fenrys laughed, Raiden glowered at him. "I'm serious," she continued. "I'm a fast learner. And I want to know how."

Fenrys still chuckled softly when he said, "And why is that?"

"My brother was—is—a fighter," she said. "And it got him out of here. Maybe…" Even in the dusky, fading light from the setting sun, Fenrys could see her cheeks redden. "Maybe it can do the same for me."

"Raiden," Fenrys said, "a word, please?"

Raiden raised his eyes heavenward before making his way over to Fenrys, who pulled him over to the side, far enough away that Emery couldn't hear them. "Yes?" Raiden said.

"I don't want that girl with us."

"Don't be an ass," Raiden snapped. "She can help us. You know that as well as I do."

"She might also stab us in our sleep."

"I doubt very much," said Raiden, "that anyone could stab you in your sleep."

He was right, of course. "But why _risk_ it?"

"Fen," Raiden said. "I want to help her."

Fenrys almost growled at him. " _Why?"_

"Because," he said simply, "she seems like the kind of person that could use it."

All at once, the anger left Fenrys in a rush. Because that was how Raiden was. He was not complex, or layered. He was angry at the world, but also fiercely protective. He put himself out on a limb to help people he barely even knew. He had come with Fenrys to bury Connall's dead body when he had barely even known either of them; he had come with Fenrys to fight a fight that was not his even after he had been kidnapped, beaten, and stripped of innocence.

Raiden wanted to help her, because she seemed like the kind of person that could use help.

Fenrys closed his eyes. He felt his pulse beat erratically at the base of his throat, and—shockingly—he felt a pair of fingers brush his neck.

Raiden stood below him, several inches shorter than Fenrys. His hand was pressed to Fenrys's collarbone, amber eyes heavy with meaning. "Please?"

"Fine," Fenrys growled, stepping away. Raiden's hand fell to his side, and Fenrys stormed back in the tent, full of too many emotions to name. He felt Raiden's eyes on his back as the flap of the tent swung into place behind him, but Fenrys couldn't turn back.

He wouldn't turn back.

* * *

 **A/N: Hence the intro of new plot lines and a new OC. (Emery has some heritage of her own... I'll leave you guys to try to puzzle that one out.) Next chapter will feat. more info on Dallie, Syeira, Kasper, and the rest of the crew (I should literally just come up with an acronym... RASKALCD? That sounds like some particularly deadly strain of disease. Accurate. ANYWAY). And Vaughan isn't gone for good; he probably won't be coming back next chapter, but he'll be making a fabulous re-return soon (damn my references are out of control. Brownie points to anyone who can name what TV show "re-return" is from).**

 **REVIEW THANK YOU LIST! :D**

 **MerToTheCado**

 **BookBabbles**

 **kittysniper9**

 **fairymaster**

 **KayGe08**

 **Mintcat Moo**

 **Guest**

 **Anonymous (I know; it wasn't a full fledged gods chapter, it was just a brief mention. Look, all I can tell you is this: Deanna will eventually have a role in the story, but it's going to take some time. Vaughan will be coming to theaters soon. And as far as writing a FanFic with my OCs, I mean... sure, I guess, as long as you maybe let me know where you're posting it and give me credit for my characters? I would honestly prefer it if you maybe wait until I finish this story itself, but I won't hold you to that.)**

 **Guest**

 **cindykxie (Daleka is Dallie's full name. You'll get more on why she changed it back next chapter :D)**

 **pomxxx (I know I think I accidentally-on-purpose made Kas a hell of a mother hen and I'm kind of really pleased with myself which happens pretty rarely :D)**


	20. Chapter 19

**A/N: I'm back after a LOVELY week of this amazing writer's block that's been dogging me (ughhh) where not only can I not think of ANY good ideas, the words are just not coming to me. And when they are, they're crap.**

 **Story of my life, right there. *hangs head in dejection like Eeyore from _Winnie the Pooh_ * (I am basically Eeyore.)**

 **ANYWAY, thanks so much to everyone that reviewed! :D Sorry about this slightly-mediocre chapter, but WHATEVER, IT'S TIME TO MOVE ON. Next chapter will be fun to write, if nothing else. :)**

 **RECAP: The Terrasen gang (Rowan, Aelin, Leta, Kasper, Aedion, Lysandra, Channon, Dallie, and Syeira) are all heading south to Adarlan after Dorian sent a note about forces moving in the south (in Eyllwe, near the Bogdano Jungle). Dallie's still on her oh-shit-i-am-now-alive-and-undergoing-an-existential-crisis, future-ish phase, and Syeira's coughing up black blood. So that's fun.**

 **ENJOY! :D**

* * *

CHAPTER 19

 **SYEIRA**

Syeira hated the sea.

More specifically, Syeira hated things that were out of her control, and the ocean, in its sweeping, vast mess of blue and gray, was most certainly out of her reach. If the ocean commanded she drown, she would drown.

She sat on a corner of the deck at dawn, flipping through the pages of a book. It had been ages since Syeira had properly read, and it set something at ease in her chest. Syeira loved her father, but they had little in common, save for a shared love for books and ice.

It was a beautiful thing, the ability to lose herself in print and the crinkle of pages, the feel of a smooth leather cover and the crack of a spine; the scent of wafting dust and ink. Syeira thought there had never been anything lovelier.

On the horizon, the sun was beginning to rise, tinging the sky with soft pinks and lantern oranges. Syeira had been above-deck for hours, counting constellations and reading by candlelight.

She hadn't been able to sleep much lately.

Three handkerchiefs were set in a pile to her left, all of them covered in black blood. Her throat felt scratchy and raw, rusty.

She'd been alone save for the soldiers manning the deck at night and, perhaps unsurprisingly, Leta. The Fae princess had been at the helm of the ship since dusk, standing on the masthead with one foot on each of the carved figurine's elbows, arms outstretched, eyelashes pale against her cheeks, lips parted slightly as she churned the sea and sky, propelling their mass of ships southward.

Alone save for Leta—and Dallie, Syeira thought, glancing up to where the young girl crouched in the crow's nest. Dallie had scampered up within minutes of being on the ship, and she hadn't come down.

Aedion and Lysandra had more or less given up trying. Syeira felt the clammy press of guilt against the hollow of her throat constantly, the words _this is your fault_ echoing in her mind unbidden.

The scholars and healers had inspected Dallie, and they had more or less come to the conclusion that she saw auras, cloaks of color around a person's head that marked their mood, and lifelines of a sort, branching out from their chest.

And when Dallie touched a person…

She could see their past. Their present.

Syeira wouldn't be surprised if she saw their future, too.

No one knew what to do with the little girl that looked like Dallie but called herself Daleka, the girl who spat and writhed and had visions of battlefields and killing when she slept. The Daleka that had come back from the Afterworld was not the Dallie that had gone in, and no one knew how to get Dallie back—if such a thing were even possible.

No one knew what had really happened the day that Syeira had reincarnated Dallie. Rowan suspected Crochan gifts, but it was one thing to suspect a theory and not have any concrete proof or knowledge. They needed Manon and the Thirteen for more information, and even then, Syeira wasn't sure she wanted it.

She'd learned the hard way through the years of schooling at Torre Cesme that the answer patients received was not always the answer they desired.

Syeira folded her book down on the deck, scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hands. She was a mess, hair falling in ratty tangles, her dress worn and wrinkled. She needed a bath, and a good night's rest, but she hadn't gotten either.

She fought back tears. She wanted her parents. She wanted her father to hold her as he had when she was six and had exploded in a fury of ice, wanted him to whisper _it's alright, don't fear yourself._

But this was different. Syeira wasn't six years old anymore, and she had caused considerably more damage than a few weak ice crystals could produce.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wood of the ship, concentrating on the shift of the sea, the sifting waves and the scent of brine and salt, the caw of a seagull somewhere far overhead, a sign that they weren't far off from a coast or island.

The boards of the deck creaked, and someone sat down beside her.

Syeira smelled pepper and rosemary. She cracked open one eye.

Kasper sat on her left, gold hair glinting in the newborn sun. His chin was stubbled, and circles similar to Syeira's lurked beneath his eyes.

As always, she felt somehow soothed by his presence. Being around Kasper was a strange, volatile thing: she felt simultaneously at peace and heightened, acutely aware of her limbs and extremities, as if her veins were charged with lightning or wildfire.

"How long have you been out here?" Kasper asked. His voice was scratchy from sleep, and for some reason, it sent a shiver down Syeira's spine.

"All night," Syeira answered quietly. "Most of it, anyway."

Kasper exhaled and clasped her fingers. He frowned. "Gods, Syeira, your hands are freezing."

"It's been kind of cold out here," she admitted. "I don't mind it, though."

He sent her a dubious look and took her hand between his, rubbing it beneath his hot, crackling skin. He blew on it—even his breath was warm. She shivered again.

"You're warm," she said.

His eyes lifted to hers, and his mouth quirked up in a shadow of a smile. "Blame my ancestors," he said.

She scooted closer to him, edging over until their hips were touching, and leaned into his shoulder. Her eyelids flickered shut, and he sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She was exhausted, tired and cold to her bones, and Kasper felt warm and safe.

She opened her eyes, taking his hand and tracing the white scars on his wrists. He stiffened, but she tossed him a glare, as if to say, _Don't even bother._

The scars outlined the imprint of a manacle. For a moment, Syeira's chest tightened, and her vision went red.

"I dream about it sometimes," Kasper said lowly.

"Dream about what?"

"Being a slave," he said. "In Sollemere."

Syeira's throat closed up. She looked up, and the way he held himself…

He was so stiff, so uncertain. She could see it in the set of his mouth, the sag to his shoulders. He didn't know whether or not he could tell her this.

She wondered if he ever told anyone about it. Maybe. Maybe not.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

His eyes widened. "You don't want to hear about that, Syeira."

"Of course I don't, Kasper, don't be an idiot," she snapped, and immediately regretted it. He pulled his hands back, and she said, "I'd listen, if you wanted. If you needed someone to… hear. You know that, right?" Her eyes watered.

His chest hitched.

"If you ever needed someone, Kasper," she said, "for… whatever, I'd do what I could. I'd try."

He didn't say anything, and she turned away, cheeks flushing, but then he said, "Thank you."

The two of them lapsed into silence, and then Kasper said, "Maeve wanted me."

Syeira couldn't—didn't—breathe.

She counted to ten in her head, waiting for him to continue.

It was only when he didn't that she spoke.

"Wanted you how?"

"She wanted to fuck me," Kasper said. The words were so quiet, hidden from the Fae ears on the ship. They were not meant for anyone but the two of them to hear.

Syeira whirled around, the blood draining from her face, but Kasper didn't look at her.

" _Kasper,"_ she said. "What—"

"They don't know," he said. "Nobody does. I haven't… told anyone."

She wanted to ask. She wanted to know so fucking badly, but she didn't—couldn't—

"She didn't get there," Kasper said, so softly that Syeira almost didn't hear him. "Not all the way. But she got close. She couldn't—undo the marking. The scent. My mother would know, and Maeve couldn't… she didn't want to risk that."

Syeira couldn't find the words to speak, even if she had the voice.

"She made me do other things, though," he said, shuddering. "She did other… things… to me."

A tear ran down his cheek, and the sight of it made something in her stop short; freeze.

"That's what I dream about," he whispered. "Her. Holding me. Forcing me. Threatening to whip my mother or Fenrys if I didn't."

Syeira pressed her hand to her mouth.

She hadn't known. She'd had no idea.

Syeira wanted to fucking _kill_ Maeve. She wanted her _dead._

"Kasper," she whispered.

"I was fifteen years old," he said hoarsely, and the ragged brokenness in his voice undid something inside of her. He raked a hand through his hair, and she saw that his fingers were trembling. "I was fifteen fucking years old when she decided that she wanted me."

Syeira was going to throw up. She was going to vomit, to retch.

But she didn't matter. Not right now.

" _Kasper,"_ she repeated, taking his shoulders. Taking his chin so that he looked right at her. "What that bitch did is _not your fault._ "

His breath snagged.

"It is _not_ ," she said, " _your fault._ It is not yours, and it is not your mother's, or Fenrys's, or your father's. It is _hers._ Do you understand me?"

He didn't answer, and his silence broke her heart.

"I am not a bullshitting kind of person," she said. "I do not believe in comfortable lies, and I'm not lying to you. What you did—what you went through—I can't even begin to fathom. I don't… I don't even know. Not even close." She forced herself to steady, to be there not for herself but Kas. "It is _not your fault,_ and if I ever get within a ten-mile radius of that _bitch,_ I am going to tear her _limb-from-limb._ And I happen to be an _extremely_ terrifying person."

He didn't laugh, or smile. He didn't do anything at all.

"I am so, _so_ sorry," she croaked. "For what she did to you—for what you had to go through. And I am…" Her hands fell away, landing in her lap. "It takes someone incredible to be able to do what you did—to fight for your mother and your friend every moment you drew breath. And I am so, so _grateful_ that I got the chance to know you."

This time, Kasper didn't remain a stoic statue. He threw his arms around her neck.

It took Syeira a moment to realize that he was crying.

He sobbed, shoulders shaking, and she held him, even as his arms tightened into a crushing hold around her ribs. She closed her eyes, shaking, and stroked his back, his hair, whispering it over and over and over again.

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

 _It's not your fault, it's not your fault, it's not your fault, it's not your fault._

 _You are loved, you are loved, you are loved, you are loved._

"I've got you," Syeira whispered tightly. "I've got you. I've got you."

 _I've got you._

She didn't know how long she held him like that, how long he cried. All she knew was that somehow, the two of them curled up together, both holding each other as if their life depended upon it, and somehow, they both fell asleep.

—

 **AELIN**

When Aelin stumbled up the stairs to the deck that morning, she was not particularly in the mood to deal with people.

Not that Aelin was ever in the mood to deal with people. But today especially.

Rowan came up beside her, growling at the onslaught of sun. The two of them had been up late, poring over maps and devising new battle strategies, bouncing off ideas on one another until they had collapsed, exhausted, in their bed.

She pinned her hair up on her head as Rowan wiped a hand over his face, squinting at the sky. Leta was still standing on the masthead near the front of the ship, unmoveable and still.

But that was Leta. She _was_ still—still, and largely unshakeable. Nothing like Aelin had been, everything like Rowan.

Aelin's eyes scanned the deck, and she stopped short. Rowan ran into her on the stairs, letting out a foul curse that curdled half the milk on the ship.

"Tell me I am not seeing this," Aelin said. "Rowan, _tell me._ "

He rubbed the back of his neck, coming up beside her, and hissed when he followed her gaze. " _Fuck_ no."

Kasper and Syeira were curled up on a corner of the ship, sleeping beside one another.

That was a generous word for it, _beside._ Their legs were intertwined, hands knitted, Kasper's head on Syeira's neck, and Aelin was reminded of a bed in Mistward, her hand clasped to Rowan's chest.

She really, _really hated_ that she was reminded of a bed in Mistward.

"No," Aelin said, shaking her head. " _No."_

And she began to march across the ship to drag her son belowdecks by his ears, but a voice at her side halted her in her tracks.

"Let him be," Leta said.

Aelin started, turning around. She hadn't even heard or saw her daughter coming, and neither had Rowan, judging by his frown. Leta had an uncanny way of sneaking up on a person; sometimes it seemed as if she only had one foot on the ground.

"The hell I will," Aelin snarled.

"They need this," Leta said. She didn't seem particularly afraid of Aelin, never had, which irritated Aelin to no end. "Both of them."

Aelin glared at her daughter, and Leta held her glare opaquely. Even Rowan had never been this… unflappable. Aelin had always been able to get underneath his skin.

Though she'd long suspected she was one of the few people with the ability to do so.

"No," Aelin said, but it was weaker this time.

"Yes," Leta said simply.

Rowan didn't say anything. His arms were crossed, and he was looking hard at Leta.

Aelin flattened her lips, whirled, and stormed back downstairs. She didn't look back.

She was going to kill Dorian. Manon too.

It had been awhile since she'd had a proper fight.

—

 **ROWAN**

"Enlighten me," Rowan said, "as to what the hell that was all about."

Leta's shoulders sank fractionally. She hesitated for a moment. Leta reminded Rowan of how he'd been when he was younger—that same still quietness, but without the bitterness and fury he'd gained with age. He hoped, for Leta's sake, that she never attained those particular qualities.

"There are things Kas doesn't tell us," she said at last. "Not even me."

Rowan nodded. "I know."

She didn't seem surprised by this answer, and Rowan added, "I know that there are things you don't tell me either, too. That's a trait that won't serve either of you any good."

He wanted to frighten Leta—Rowan doubted he would ever forget the day that he had learned how deep Aelin's secrets went—but she only smiled sadly. "I know."

The way she said it panicked Rowan. He'd heard that same tone of voice, but unlike Leta's stillness, this was not a trait she had inherited from him; it was a trait she had gotten from Aelin. It was the way that Aelin had agreed to his demands before she'd stepped outside of the shield at Mistward to fight the Valg, the way that she'd brushed him off when she'd gone skulking around Rifthold at night and left him in their bed, the way that she'd evaded questions and answers and set herself up as expendable.

 _Fuck no._ Not again. Not even close.

"Leta," Rowan said.

She just reached out and squeezed his hand. "I love you, Dad," she said. "You know that, right?"

" _Leta,"_ Rowan repeated. "What the _hell_ —"

Her hand slipped away. "Be easy on Kasper," she said. "Syeira too."

And then, even as Rowan was about to wring her neck, she shifted, transforming in a bright flash of light and soaring up high in the air, wings outstretched.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as he watched her go.

He'd figure out whatever it was that she was hiding, and then there would be hell.

—

 **DORIAN**

Dorian had gotten the letter bearing the news of Rowan and Aelin's passage south only two days before their ships docked at the harbor.

He was asleep beside Manon in their bed, his arm thrown over her stomach, when the knock came at the door. Manon snarled, turning away from the light, and Dorian rubbed his eyes and called, "Who is it?"

"It's Callie," said Calynn's familiar, sweet voice. "Dad, Rowan and Aelin are here. With Syeira."

In unison, Dorian and Manon both launched out of bed. Neither of them were clothed, and Dorian scrambled for his discarded boxers on the floor as Manon snatched up her undergarments. Dorian yanked his trousers on, almost toppling onto the carpet. Thankfully, Manon steadied him, muttering under her breath about idiot, clumsy kings.

Dorian just pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth and went over to his closet, shirking on a shirt and a doublet. He smoothed down his hair as best as he could, though he had to admit the effort was marginal at best.

He grabbed a pair of boots and slung them on, hopping on one foot, and fell through the door to his closet, catching himself on a corner of the wall.

Manon was in her own closet, lacing up a form-fitting shirt over a pair of black leggings. She struggled to reach the lacings on the small of her back, and Dorian went over and took them himself, nimble fingers knotting and tying.

He swept away the hair at her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the base of her neck. She inhaled, and his lips smiled against his skin.

She turned around, catching his hands with hers, eyes sparking. "Dorian. _Now,_ really?"

"Mom?" Calynn called. "Dad? Are you in there?"

"Yes!" Manon shouted, smacking Dorian's hands away. "We'll be right out! Go down and greet them, Callie!"

There was a pause, and a set of footsteps heading down a corridor.

Manon turned on Dorian. "Honestly," she growled. "It's like you're seventeen years old."

He rose a slender brow. "As I recall, I wasn't much older when—"

He had to duck as Manon threw a shoe at his head.

She pinned her hair up in a single, fluid motion, shucking on shoes in another, and then folded her arms, inspecting him.

He held up his hands, still grinning.

She huffed, but a smile played at her lips as she straightened his jacket, raking her fingers through his hair. "You are a _child,_ Dorian Havilliard," she said.

"Ah," he said. "But you love me anyway."

" _That_ is up for debate."

He drew her in and kissed her, swiping his lips across hers, and she exhaled against his mouth. Dorian tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.

"I love you," he said.

She scowled, but muttered, "I love you, too."

He cupped a hand to his ear. "What was that?"

He had to duck again. Manon had thrown another shoe at his head.

—

 **AELIN**

It had been some eighteen-odd years since Aelin had last been to Rifthold, and the sight of it took her breath away.

She knew this city backwards and forwards, inside and out. She knew these roads, these ramshackle buildings, these opulent palisades. She knew it all.

She saw ghosts haunting the streets. _Sam, Wesley, Nehemia._

She wondered if they saw her now. She wondered what they thought of Rowan, of Kasper, of Leta.

Rowan's hand brushed her elbow, his presence solid, unwavering at her side. She stepped back from the window in Dorian and Manon's throne room as Rowan wrapped his arms around her waist, nestling his chin into the crook of her shoulders.

"Remember?" she whispered.

"I remember," he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Aelin could see the others assembled in the stone throne room waiting for Adarlan's king and queen: Aedion and Lysandra, Aedion holding Lysandra to him with closed eyes; Leta, running her finger along the golden candelabras with lips parted in childlike wonder and surprise, and Channon by her side, tired and drained; Dallie, lingering in the shadows in the corner, eyes shining like a beacon; and Kasper and Syeira.

Aelin didn't like that they had become a single entity. Not even a little bit.

But Kasper and Syeira were talking together, leaning against the wall. Kasper laughed at something Syeira said, and she frowned at him, shoving him. But it was light; playful.

Aelin did not particularly care for Syeira Crochan-Havilliard, and she wished her son didn't, either.

This time, Syeira laughed—a full laugh, head thrown back, throat exposed. Kasper watched her, eyes widening slightly, his throat bobbing.

Aelin's hands fisted at her side as the doors opened to the throne room.

Manon and Dorian entered. The room had been emptied out for their purposes, and it seemed empty, the enormous, cavernous hall of stone, the tapestries tumbling down from the ceilings, the arched, diamond-paned windows.

Both Manon and Dorian seemed… rumpled. Beside Aelin, Rowan coughed.

Dorian's eyes fell on Syeira, and quickly—so quickly Aelin almost didn't see it—he crossed the room in three limber strides and hauled his arms around her.

Syeira blinked, momentarily surprised, before hugging Dorian back, just as tightly. Kasper smiled faintly and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Dorian withdrew from Syeira, his expression of pure relief transforming into something else.

Fury.

"What," he said, "the _hell_ were you _thinking_?"

Syeira winced. "I'm sorry—"

"You're _sorry_?" he said. "You go gallivanting off to another _country_ without even telling me—without telling your mother? After Raiden, and Chaol, and Nesryn? Are you out of your gods-damned _mind_?"

Syeira opened her mouth to reply, but a coughing fit seized her instead. She reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, but came up short.

Immediately, Kasper reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a white cloth, pressing it into her hand. She took it, hacking black blood into the fabric.

For a moment, there was dead silence.

Then a set of footsteps.

Dallie came out from the corner. She hadn't brushed her hair in days, had refused to let anyone touch her, and she exuded an air that was even more otherworldly; alien.

She padded over to Dorian barefoot, peering up with him with wide, pearly eyes.

He barked a curse and scrambled back.

Dallie just took a step forward and placed a hand on his forearm.

Immediately, her eyes began to glow.

Dorian paled, but didn't move, even as Dallie whispered, "'I'd hate for you to waste away into nothing. It'd be a shame to lose the most beautiful woman in the world so soon into her immortal, wicked life.'"

Dorian nearly catapulted backward. The glowing from Dallie's eyes subsided, and his breaths came in huge, gasping pants.

Beside him, Manon seemed equally as stunned.

"What," Manon said, "the _fuck_ is going on?"

Aelin put her head in her hands. No one answered.

Finally, Kasper spoke up.

"That," he said, "is a rather long story."

—

 **SYEIRA**

Syeira sat on the balcony outside her room, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching the city sing below.

Night had fallen over Rifthold, and it felt so familiar to Syeira that her heart ached with the force of it. This was _her_ city, _her_ home, in all its sprawling, stained glory.

Rifthold was not particular. It took the sinners and the saints and embraced them both, accepted their spit and their blood and made a river of tears.

Maybe that was what tears were, in the end. Spit and blood.

The way her father had looked at her…

Syeira was the one that told the story. She had to be. She hadn't looked at anyone when she'd relayed it, hadn't dared to move, to breathe. She'd had to pause every few seconds to cough into her handkerchief.

When she'd finished telling the tale of how she'd come to Terrasen, how she'd brought Dallie back to life, her parents hadn't said anything.

Syeira had looked up, but Dorian was sitting on his throne, head bowed, hands knotted between his knees. He didn't look at her.

He did not tell her everything was going to be alright. He did not tell her not to be afraid.

Finally, Manon had said, "I've heard of this before."

The heads in the room had swiveled toward her in unison.

"Not much," Manon said, raking a hand through her hair. "I was raised an Ironteeth, not a Crochan. But I've heard of old queens that were rumored to have the ability to… resuscitate… the dead."

"Do you know what happened to them?" Lysandra had asked, a little desperately. Her eyes and nose were red-rimmed, wrecked by grief.

Manon shook her head. She hadn't looked at Syeira, either. Manon had seemed almost… floored. Stunned.

Syeira had never seen her mother like that before, and it frightened her.

"I'll talk to Ghislaine," Manon said, referencing the well-learned member of her Thirteen. "If anyone knows, it'll be her, or maybe one of the older Ironteeth matrons. All of the other Crochans are dead, and I'm only a third of Rowan's age. I don't know enough."

More uncertain answers. More unknowns.

It hadn't been long after that that they had all found their way back to their rooms. Syeira had paused in the threshold of her chambers for a moment, waiting. Unwilling.

The last time she had been here, she had been packing. Her father had found Raiden in her bed, and she had been shipped off to Terrasen, Raiden to the Southern Continent.

But then he had gone to Wendlyn, and Connall had gotten him, and…

And now Syeira didn't know where he was.

She missed him. Gods, she missed him.

He had been her best friend, and there were so many things about their relationship that had been fucked-up and broken. He had loved her, she had deluded herself into thinking she loved him. She had gotten a rush over his idolatry of her, had soothed her own insecurities by unearthing his.

But he had been her _friend,_ and Syeira _missed_ him.

She had been sitting here on her balcony for hours, watching the stars, and she felt restless.

When the knock came, it was almost as if it answered some unspoken ache in her chest.

She let the blanket fall from her shoulders, padding across her room, and opened the door. Syeira was only half-surprised to see Kasper standing outside. Not even half-surprised; not shocked at all.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Kasper said.

She didn't even hesitate.

"Hell yes," she said. "Hold on. Let me get my cloak."

—

The two of them slipped out a side door of the castle, using Syeira's extensive knowledge to navigate the hallways and corridors. She led him down stairwells, up steps, left and right and straight until they eased out a door intended mostly for the servants, exiting on a gravel path that led to the stables.

"Come on," Syeira said, leading Kasper away from the stables and toward the palisades cloistering the castle off from the rest of the city.

Between the two of them, with Syeira's razor-sharp memories of other nights spent out of her bed and Kasper's Fae senses, they managed to sneak out undetected.

As soon as the two of them were away from the prying eyes and ears at the castle, they heaved identical sighs of relief.

Syeira glanced over at Kasper. Only days ago, he had told her about Maeve. Now they were escaping from the castle at Rifthold together.

"What?" Kasper said out of the side of his mouth. "You're staring at me."

"I'm not," she said, looking away quickly, cheeks reddening.

He grinned. "You are. You're staring at me."

"Gods, Kas, you don't have to sound so delighted," she said as they crossed the bridge over the river. Rifthold was at its best during night—it was only when the sun fell that the people rose, lights flickering over the city like treacherous will-o'-the-wisps, making a trail of breadcrumbs right to vice's door. On the side of the road in the middle of the bridge, a gray-haired man merrily sawed at a fiddle.

"I think I have the right to be a little delighted."

She dropped his hand, shoving him. "Arse."

He laughed, and the sound warmed her heart. She loved the sound of Kasper's laugh. It wasn't perfect, like his smile—it was slightly hoarse, ragged at the edges.

She loved it anyway.

"Question," Syeira said.

"Answer."

" _Smartass."_

"That didn't sound like a question."

She shoved him again, and he flashed her a cheeky smirk. "I know why _I_ would want to get away from the castle tonight," she said. "But last I heard, you hadn't committed any crimes against nature."

He stopped. "Syeira, you didn't commit a crime against nature."

"That remains to be seen, apparently." She paused, coughing into her sleeve, and grimaced. "Dammit."

A slight crease appeared between his eyebrows. "Sy. You didn't commit a crime against nature."

"First of all, 'Sy' is a terrible nickname. You have no talent for this. Second of all, you didn't answer _my_ question, Kas."

He put his hands in his pockets, ambling along. They reached the other side of the bridge, taking a left down a street lined with flower boxes and sputtering lanterns.

"Sometimes," he said, "I get lost in my own head, you know?"

She exhaled. "Yeah. I know."

The two of them lapsed into quiet. On the street corner, a little girl was dancing a jig for money. Kasper dug into the coin purse on his belt and flicked her a silver, and she beamed at him.

They took a right, and Syeira said, "I had this book when I was a kid."

"Oh, man. I can tell this is going to be a good story already."

"I do not appreciate your sarcasm, Kasper Samuel Rhoe Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius."

He winced. "I do not appreciate your use of my extremely ostentatious full name."

"It _does_ warrant an acronym. KSRWAG?"

"I'm sorry, did you just have a seizure?"

"Brute."

"Brat."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed again, tipping his head back. The light from a lantern cast his features into profile, the sharp planes of his cheekbones and his Ashryver eyes, the golden curls tumbling down over his neck.

They almost reached his shoulders. He needed his hair cut, Syeira thought absentmindedly.

"Anyway," she said, shaking her head. " _As I was saying._ When I was little, I had this book. My nanny got it for me. I always kind of thought she hated me. I hated her, though, so we were even."

"I think that if I were your nanny, I'd hate you, too."

" _Ha. Ha._ I'll have you know I was a _delightful_ child."

"Somehow, I sincerely doubt that."

She glowered at him. "This book was about a cartoon squirrel, and if you'd let me get to the gods-damned _point_ , this story would go along a hell of a lot quicker."

"Well, if that's not incentive, I don't know what is."

"I'm going to leave you here, Kasper Galathynius, and you won't be able to find your way back to the palace, and then you'll rot away in some alley somewhere."

His brow lifted marginally. "Dear gods, my survival skills are pitiable."

"The cartoon squirrel," Syeira interrupted, fixing him with a dagger glare, "had this pair of socks that he loved. Like, _loved._ They were green and striped and I don't know, but they were apparently some damn fine socks."

"I want some damn fine socks."

"Your feet will freeze away in the winter because you are a horrible person and do not _deserve_ damn fine socks. Stop _laughing,_ Kasper, I'm trying to discuss _literature,_ you uncultured heathen."

He cleared his throat. "Right, right. Sorry. Go on, O Wise One."

"You little mother—"

"Tsk-tsk," Kasper said, waggling his fingers. "Come on, sweetheart. You started the story, now you've got to finish it."

"The next time you call me 'sweetheart,' you're going to find yourself losing a limb." He just grinned at her, and she glared at him, before continuing, "One day, the cartoon squirrel lost the socks. And he had a panic attack. He went around to all the other cartoon creatures in the forest, asking them if they had his goddamn socks. And all of them—the badger, the robin, the bear, whatever—said they didn't."

Kasper was quiet.

"He never found the socks."

Kasper paused, looking up at her. "Wait, seriously? That's it? He never found the socks?"

"Never," Syeira said. "This little cartoon squirrel looked and looked for this pair of striped green socks, and he did everything he could—put his whole heart and soul into finding these stupid socks—and he still didn't find them. There was nothing he could do. They were gone, and they were never coming back."

Neither of them said anything.

Then, Kasper: "That's depressing."

"It was," Syeira agreed. "But for whatever reason, it was my favorite book. I made my nanny, my parents, read it over and over again. I think now that I thought that if I reread it enough times, it would have a different ending. The socks would show up somewhere. They'd be there; they _had_ to be." She hugged her arms to her chest. "But that's the thing. They weren't."

Now Kasper seemed a bit alarmed. "Syeira," he said. "I'll buy you a pair of striped green socks."

"That's not it," she said, laughing and wiping her eyes. "It's just… it's so true, isn't it? You can look and look and look for something, but that doesn't mean you'll find it. Not at all."

He sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. "Oh, Syeira. You worry me, you know that?"

She sniffle-laughed. "That seems to be the general consensus."

"Come here," Kasper said, and she did, slipping closer to him until she felt his warmth against her back. She leaned into him, nestling her head against his neck.

She wanted to stay here. She wanted to breathe him in forever.

It scared the shit out of her.

She opened her eyes and found him looking at her, an odd expression on his face.

"Now you're the one that's staring," she whispered, but neither of them laughed.

"I think," Kasper said, his Adam's apple skittering up and down his throat nervously.

"You think what?" she whispered.

Then he stiffened, snapping his gaze away, and sniffed.

They'd wandered farther than Syeira had realized—they were only a few streets over from the slums. A strong wind was blowing, ruffling both their hair, picking up the tails of Kasper's jacket.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he muttered, sniffing the air again.

"What? Kas, what is it?"

His gaze shot to her. "How fast can you run?"

"I…" She blinked, taken aback. "Not as fast as you, probably. Why?"

"Get on," he said, turning around.

" _I beg your pardon?"_

"Syeira," he snapped. "I need to run, and I'm not about to leave you here. _Get on._ "

" _Kasper Samuel Rhoe Whi—"_

But she was broken off by his snarl as he lifted her onto his back. She shrieked, clinging to his neck, her legs wrapping around his torso instinctually.

 _Shit._ Shit, shit, _shit._

That was not good. This was _not good._

This was the _opposite of good._

She squeaked, trying to unhook her legs, but it was too late.

"Hold on," Kasper growled, and then he was off.

She held on. She held on for dear life, because _holy burning hell,_ Kasper was fast.

He shot through the streets in a blur, people shrieking and ducking out of his way. He paused every once in awhile to sniff, and his face always contorted into a force of fury.

His hair stuck up in every direction, and it was only after Syeira's cheek accidentally brushed against a few of his curls that she realized it was charged with staticity.

After what seemed an eternity, Kasper came to a screeching halt, and Syeira tumbled off his back, dizzy.

He grabbed her shoulders to steady her, but he didn't look at Syeira.

Syeira wanted to whale on him, but she knew better. She knew Kasper. He wouldn't have done something like that if he didn't have a reason.

She followed his line of sight.

And stopped.

They were in the heart of the slums, standing before a decrepit, falling-down building. Even from across the street, she could hear the jeers and shouts and brawls inside, could smell stale alcohol and piss.

"Kasper," she said quietly. "Why did you take us to the Pits?"

"Is that what this place is?" he said, laughing bitterly. He looked at her, folding his arms. "How the hell do you know what it's called?"

She pressed a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes. "Rai and I used to come here. Usually after his father pissed him off, or when he wanted to get drunk, or just raise hell."

"Rai," Kasper repeated. A shudder rippled through his shoulders, and he closed his eyes, looking very much as if he'd like to slam his fist into the next wall.

"Kasper, what's wrong? What's the matter?"

"Let's see, shall we?" he said caustically, making his way to the door. Syeira hesitated, heart in her throat, but followed him.

Inside the Pits, formerly the Vaults, she was hit with a wave of reeking odors. Sweat and vomit and blood, all mingling in the air. She retched, and she was sure that Kasper must've been suffering twice what she was, what with his heightened senses.

She wanted to get out of here. She didn't want to feel Rai's ghost dogging her footsteps, didn't want to hear his voice calling for another at the bar, didn't want…

"Raiden," she said, tugging Kasper's sleeve.

He stopped, stock-still, and she realized her mistake.

"Kasper," she said. "I mean _Kasper._ "

He yanked his arm away with almost savage force, and she felt panic well up in her throat as he stalked down the stairs, as if he couldn't put enough space between them.

"Kasper, _wait_!" she said, running after him, sidestepping a wasted man that belched loudly in her face.

 _Shit, shit, shit. That's not what I meant, that's not how I meant it, Kasper,_ wait.

Kasper went right for the fighting boxes, and for one horrible, heart-stopping moment, Syeira thought he was going to volunteer himself.

But he didn't. Instead, he watched.

The fight was one of the most brutal Syeira had ever seen. One man was pitted against ten guards, and the guards, incredibly enough, were _losing._

The man was enormous, broad-shouldered and muscled enough to make Syeira's mouth go dry, her stomach swoop, with skin like brown sugar and dark hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck.

One of the guards shouted a curse and ran for the man, but the man simply laughed.

In two savage, brutal moments, with only the man's bare hands, he snapped the guard's arm in two.

She flinched at the sound of breaking bone.

The man staggered. He was piss-ass drunk, she realized, but he dispatched the men around him with ease.

It was a whirlwind of speed and brutality. _Crunch, snap, thud._

In a matter of seconds, seven of the ten guards were crouched on the floor, screaming, and the other three circled warily.

"Come on, now," the man slurred. "Come and _get me,_ you bastards." He spat into the corner of his arena, blood dripping from his teeth.

Syeira froze. That _voice._ She'd heard that voice before, but she didn't know…

One of the guards unleashed a battle cry, and the man slammed his fist into the guard's face, kneeing him in the groin in one smooth, practiced move.

The man's hair parted around his ears, and Syeira froze.

He wasn't human—he wasn't a man. He was a male Fae.

 _No. Impossible._

This time, it was the Fae that went for the other two guards. Even inebriated, he slid through the arena quick as a striking cobra, slamming the heel of his hand into one man's sternum and wrapping his fist around the other man's throat.

The Fae slammed both of them into the ground. " _Bastards,"_ the Fae said, grinning bloodily.

She saw the Fae's eyes in that one brief moment as the crowd cheered and booed, as bets were made and won, as the officiator called it on the Fae's end.

Dark. Dark, and flecked with maroon.

"Vaughan," Syeira whispered.

* * *

 **A/N: I kind of wanted to go back and name all of my chapters just so I could call this one "Striped Green Socks" and be poETIC and mEANINGFUL and sTUFF.**

 **But then I was like, nah I'm good so that's where we are.**

 **REVIEW THANK YOU LIST TIME!**

 **KayGe08**

 **Dacowluva (x3 AHHHHH)**

 **Mintcat Moo**

 **pomxxx (x2 AHHHHH) (Emery's identity is going to come like, the hell out of left field, don't worry. Also YES THE RE-RETURN IS FROM HIMYM *channels Barney* *HIGH-FIVE* *is done channeling Barney bc he's kind of an ass honestly but it's ok*)**

 **NoCluez**

 **Guest**

 **fairymaster**

 **isabelas**

 **Thank you guys so much! :D Sorry about the cliffhanger (what am I talking about no I'm not)**


	21. Chapter 20

**A/N: Honestly, I think my fav thing about Vaughan being back is that I get to play my Vaughan and Leta playlist again. Pausing my writing to screech Vance Joy lyrics is probably the high point of 2017 so far, no joke.**

 **Thanks to all the lovely reviewers, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! :P**

* * *

CHAPTER 20

 **SYEIRA**

Syeira stared at Vaughan.

 _Holy burning hell._

The last time she had seen Vaughan Zamil, Leta had been standing in front of him, halting a knife plunging directly into his chest. Vaughan had been escorted to the dungeons by a slew of guards, broken and bleeding, head bowed, pride more bruised than even his shattered body.

Now, he wobbled unsteadily in the cesspool of the Pits, outstretching his arms and bellowing for another fight.

He was met with a round of boos and hisses. He'd clearly been dominating the arena for a long while, and other fighters wanted a shot at a brawl—without a guaranteed uppercut to the mouth.

It looked like Vaughan had gotten his fair share of those, too. His teeth were stained red with blood. His, or somebody else's.

Vaughan laughed, toppling over into the side of the arena as a few men shoved him off. The Fae didn't fight; he stumbled down the stairs and almost crashed headfirst into a wall. Steadying himself on the back of a barstool, he made his way over to the bar, holding up a finger for another drink.

Syeira had no idea how he was still standing. Then again, she was judging by her scale of Raiden, who was something of a lightweight. After two drinks, he'd climb on top of the tables and recite bad poetry.

A lump rose in her throat. Syeira's eyes searched the crowd for Kasper.

He wasn't looking for her, or at her. He was stalking across the floor, heading straight for Vaughan.

Syeira paled, scrambling down the stairs, not bothering to mutter apologies to the drunk clientele that she roughly shoved out of her way. If Vaughan and Kasper got into a fight at the Pits…

There wouldn't be a Pits left. _Dammit._

The bartender slid a tankard across the tacky surface, and Vaughan caught it, lifting it to his lips and downing most of the cup in a single gulp. Syeira tried to ease her way through the crowd, and a man grabbed at her ass.

She didn't even think. Her hand shot out, twisting the man's wrist in one single, deft flick, and he screeched, bending over. " _Bitch!"_

" _Bastard,"_ she retorted, running for the bar.

She arrived just in time to see Kasper's hand closing around Vaughan's neck.

Kasper slammed Vaughan against the wall hard enough that the stucco at the ceiling cracked. The tankard fell from Vaughan's hand, clattering to the floor and spilling over the piss-stained grime.

Syeira swore.

Vaughan laughed, holding his hands up. "Kasper Galathynius," he drawled. "Fancy meetin' you here."

Kasper reached back and slammed his fist into Vaughan's face with a sickening crunch. Heads whirled to watch, mouths opening.

"You piece of shit," Kasper snarled, hauling off on Vaughan again.

"Kasper!" Syeira shouted. "Kasper, _stop_!"

Vaughan just laughed again, and the sound was so bitter, so inhuman, that both Kasper and Syeira froze.

He shook his head, grinning through the haze of blood. His nose was crooked, as if someone had broken it during the duration of the night. Maybe that had been the _crunch_ that Syeira had heard earlier.

"Go ahead," Vaughan slurred. "Do your worst, Rowan."

Kasper's fist lowered.

"Kasper," Syeira said, appearing at his side. She reached out to touch his elbow, but he yanked his arm away savagely. Her stomach dropped to her toes.

Syeira swallowed, focusing her attention on Vaughan. "You look like hell," she told him.

Vaughan smirked at her. "Do I, now," he drawled, leaning forward.

Kasper snarled, slamming Vaughan back against the wall in a vicious, feral movement. "Get away from her."

"So pri—pro—pro _prietary_ ," Vaughan said, laughing hysterically.

"I'm going to beat the everliving shit out of you," Kasper snapped.

Vaughan's eyelids fluttered. His pupils were enormous and hazy, half-lidded.

Gods almighty. He was high.

"You're pretty," Vaughan said to Syeira. "I knew a pretty girl once."

Kasper shot out the heel of his hand and pummeled it into Vaughan's sternum. Vaughan coughed, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, and collapsed against the wall, his knees giving out.

Kasper looked incline to level another punch, but Syeira wasn't about to let him. Every instinct in her body was screaming at her. _This isn't right, this isn't Kasper, he wouldn't do this. This isn't Kasper. This isn't_ my _Kasper._

" _Kas,"_ Syeira said, grabbing his wrists.

He glared at her, malachite eyes fever-bright.

"Listen to me," she said. " _Listen._ This is not what your sister would want. Not even close."

Some of the fight left his stance.

"In fact," she continued, "I'm willing to bet that if Leta knew where you were and what you were doing, she'd lose her shit. As much as Leta _can_ lose her shit, anyway."

"Leta can lose her shit plenty," Kasper muttered, wrenching his wrists out of her grasp. "She just doesn't do it in front of an entire court."

Syeira's mouth tightened at the slight. "We need to get him out of here. Now."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," she said. "If not for him, then for your sister. You know it's what she would want."

"You don't know anything about my sister."

"Tell me I'm wrong, Kasper. Look me in the eye and tell me that I'm wrong, and we'll leave him here to drown in a pool of his own piss."

They both looked to Vaughan. He had more or less passed out against the wall, and the longer Syeira looked at him, the worse he looked. His skin was waxen and pale, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, every bit of him bruised or bleeding.

Kasper grimaced. "It's not like I can take him back to the castle."

"No," she agreed. "Does he have a place here?"

Kasper kicked Vaughan's rib. "Do you have somewhere to stay, asshole?"

He didn't reply. Instead, he reached his hand up, eyes widening, and muttered, " _Wings."_

"Opium," Syeira said.

"I got that, thanks," Kasper bit off. He paced, thinking, and Syeira wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "What am I supposed to do with him?"

"Didn't your mother have a warehouse in this part of Rifthold? With your father?"

He glanced at her incredulously. "Yeah— _eighteen years ago._ "

"It's probably still there," said Syeira. "You'd be surprised how many buildings survived the war, especially the ones in the slums. Nobody wanted to sack poor people; they had nothing to steal."

"How am I supposed to find that?"

"See if you can scent it," she said. "Isn't that how you found Vaughan?"

Kasper glowered at her. "I resent you right now."

"The feeling is mutual," she shot back.

Kasper glanced at Vaughan, curled his lip, and grabbed the Fae, hiking him up so that one arm was wrapped around his neck. "Go on. I don't want to spend another second in this hellhole."

She maneuvered through the crowd, attempting to duck greedy, searching fingers as best as she could, dissuading them with her flinty expression. Even so, a man's hand managed to swipe along her ass, and her hand shot out, ready to cut off one of his limb, but Kasper was already there.

His knee shot up with brutal efficiency, colliding with the man's groin, and slammed his fist into the man's stomach. The man wheezed and sank to the ground, and Kasper set his jaw.

She stared at him for a minute. He did not look like the charming, court's-favorite Kasper she knew. This Kasper was wilder, unhinged, hair matted, features contorted into something lethal, something that spread and burned like wildfire.

This was the Kasper that lingered beneath his skin, the one he never let anyone see. This was the Kasper that called down lightning from the sky, the Kasper that was the son not of the king and queen of Terrasen, but of the Prince of Doranelle and Aelin of the Wildfire.

This was the Kasper that could set the whole world on fire if he desired.

A shiver traveled down Syeira's spine, but it wasn't revulsion or fear. It was…

Something else. Something infinitely more dangerous.

"Let's go," Kasper said, and she nodded mutely.

The three of them ascended the stairs with some difficulty, shoving their way out of the Pits aided with a few curses. The look on Kasper's face and the rumbling in his throat kept eager hands far from Syeira. There would be no wandering fingers, not now.

Finally, they made their way onto the street, and Syeira inhaled deeply, cleansing her lungs of the dank, polluted air, or trying to.

"Can you get a scent?" she asked Kasper.

"Give me a second. I'm not a bloodhound, Syeira."

She crossed her arms, but didn't comment. Kasper hobbled up the street, Vaughan in tow. Kasper had his nose lifted, and the wind swept down the boulevard, rustling the winter leaves clustered in the gutters.

"I'll be damned," Kasper muttered. He jerked his head down the alley. "This way."

Syeira followed close behind, tucking her hands in her armpits. Kasper's cheeks and nose were already pink—she loved the cold, reveled in it, but he couldn't stand it. He liked warmth, she though; sunshine and fires and things that burned.

Syeira paused, unclasping her cloak from around her neck.

"Syeira," Kasper said, "what are you—"

She didn't even look at him as she hurled it at his chest.

It hit him smack-on, and he caught it reflexively.

"Asshole," she said.

Kasper didn't reply. Instead, he took a left turn down a narrow alleyway that smelled unpleasantly of fish.

"You can't be mad at me forever!" she called, running after him. "I'm sorry for what I did back there—for calling you Raiden. It's just—"

"I'm not mad at you," Kasper said through gritted teeth.

"Really," she said incredulously. "Because it sure seems that way to me."

Kasper stopped, whirling on her. "Syeira, I swear to all the gods that you find holy, _not everything is about you._ Did you ever stop to think that maybe— _maybe_ —I'm in a foul mood because I found _this_ dickhead high as a kite and three sheets to the wind in some festering _boil_ in this gods-forsaken city?"

Vaughan rose his head blearily, as if to say, _Who, me?_

She blinked at Kasper. "There's nothing wrong with Rifthold."

Kasper snorted, turning around and continuing to marshal Vaughan down a street.

"Come on," she said, jogging to catch up. Her breath fogged on the air. "At least take the cloak. It's cold out, and you're the one that likes warmth."

He growled, throwing the cloak back at her. "I'm _fine._ "

That stung, but she clasped her cloak back around her neck, tucking her chin into her shirt collar. _Fine._

They made their way through the city in silence. Occasionally, Vaughan would attempt to wander off—he mentioned several times, very agitatedly, that he needed to have a conversation with the pigeons nesting on the rooftops—but Kasper decided this was the apt time to grab him by his hair and slam his face against the wall, at which point Syeira saw fit to intervene.

Eventually, she inserted herself between Kasper and Vaughan, putting her hands up. " _Kasper, stop!"_

His fist froze.

His chest rose and fell unsteadily.

"Don't," he hissed, " _ever_ do that again."

"Do _what_?"

"Get in front of me and someone I'm trying to—"

"Oh, please, Kasper—"

"I mean it," he said, taking her shoulders. His skin was hotter than usual, almost burning, but she didn't push his hands away. "Don't. Don't ever do—that." His breathing came raggedly— _he_ was ragged, this Kasper, torn and fraying at the edges.

She wondered if he was always torn and fraying at the edges, maybe even worse than her, and he was just better at hiding it.

Then she wondered if Leta was the same way, and she was the best hider of them all, these adolescents at the helm of nations.

"I won't make any promises," Syeira said, looping Vaughan's arm around _her_ shoulders. Kasper opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "I'm not letting you abuse Vaughan anymore. And I won't let you turn me into collateral damage, Kas. You forget that I'm used to dangerous things."

"Not like me."

She huffed. "You think awfully high of yourself, don't you?"

Kasper folded his arms as Syeira attempted to make her way down the street with Vaughan. "Do you even know where you're _going_?"

"Not a clue," she told him cheerfully. "So if you could get your useless ass over here and tell me, that would be _highly_ appreciated."

Kasper made a rumbling sound low in his throat as Vaughan tripped over a cobblestone, almost pinning Syeira to the ground. Kasper was there, though, keeping her steady. She didn't know how he'd gotten there so quickly.

He was cursing fluently under his breath, but she couldn't make out what he was saying. Primarily because it sounded like it was in another _language._

She'd figure that one out later.

"I've got him," Kasper said, dragging Vaughan down the street.

"Hey," she said. "You know, I am a very strong person—"

He laughed tiredly. "I know, Syeira, but there's a difference between your kind of strength and mine."

She frowned at him, but he didn't react. "How much further?"

Kasper took another left and a quick right before coming to a stop, letting Vaughan slide off him to crumple to the ground. "We're here."

She and Kasper paused, looking up at the building before them. It was a warehouse—plain brick, blending into the other dingy, decrepit edifices lining this particular boulevard of the slums. It didn't look like the kind of place the ostentatious, opulent Aelin Galathynius would make her home—or the nightmarish Celaena Sardothien, for that matter.

"Um," Syeira said. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Kasper said grimly, yanking Vaughan up by his shirt collar and dragging him over to the door. Kasper rattled the door, but it was locked. He swore and raised his foot, presumably to kick it in, but Syeira shoved him out of the way.

"Honestly," she said, shaking her head and kneeling by the door. " _Boys."_

"Hey—"

She ignored him, withdrawing a pin from her hair and inserting it into the lock. She jiggled it a few times, twisting and turning the lock, and finally heard a _snick_ as the door opened.

"Your parents," she said, smiling smugly at Kasper's astonished face, "were clearly not very concerned with safety."

"I think they knew it was fruitless," Kasper replied, easing Vaughan inside. "And that they were the most dangerous things in Rifthold save for a select few, so it wouldn't matter much in the end anyway."

Syeira stepped inside, blinking at the abrupt darkness. She tripped over a piece of furniture and cursed, groping around blindly in the dark.

Her hand closed around something—no, not something. _Someone._ A stubbled cheek.

Kasper let loose a slew of profanities, and the shape in front of her took a step back. A moment later, light appeared in the room: Kasper had weaved wildfire through his fingers. His eyes were wide. "What was _that_ for?"

"It wasn't on purpose," she protested, flushing.

Kasper shook his head, shooting her a look, and peered around the warehouse. It seemed to only be the bottom floor; a set of steps in the back led up to what appeared to be a second floor overhead. The bottom floor was largely bare, save for a few crates—one of which Syeira had stumbled over—and a hatstand.

Judging by the crimson stains on the floor, Syeira would also be willing to bet this had been a practice room for fighting.

"Come on," Kasper said, pushing Vaughan toward the stairs. Syeira followed, and the two of them ascended the steps, coming to another door. This one wasn't even locked: arrogance, Syeira thought, must've been a trait that ran in the family.

Kasper turned the knob, easing the door open, and kept one hand lit. Syeira took over Vaughan, though he was enormous. He must've been almost as large as Rowan and Lorcan.

Almost immediately, light filled the room, the candles lighting in unison. Syeira blinked at Kasper, but he didn't even seem to notice, as if it were easy as breathing. _Ass._

 _This_ looked more like a place where Aelin Galathynius might live. The wallpaper was creamy and golden-striped, the kitchen gleaming. Every surface dripped with luxury and opulence, from the overstuffed lounges in the parlor to the gleaming portraits hanging on the walls. Syeira counted three or four doors leading to various rooms, some of them likely as not for sleeping.

Kasper headed for the largest of the doors, rattling the handle until it eked open. Syeira shuddered. There was something lonely about this place, the thick layer of dust on every surface that had accumulated while its owner had been bled and beaten. It carried the air of forgotten things, empty and echoing.

Another burst of light, and Kasper had lit all the candles inside. It was a bedroom, Syeira realized, stepping in after Kasper and Vaughan. A massive bed that resembled a wedding cake more than a mattress, an open door to an opulent, marble lavatory; the gaping maw of two closets.

"This was my mother's room," Kasper said. There was something unspeakably sad in the set of his mouth, in his eyes. "My father's, too, I think, but his scent is fainter. And…"

"And?"

"There's another scent, too," Kasper said. "Male. Younger."

"Oh," Syeira said.

Kasper swept a hand over his features. "I think this was Sam's room, too."

Sam. Sam Cortland.

"Oh," she repeated quietly.

Kasper shoved Vaughan off, onto the bed. "He can wash himself up in the morning. If he's even sober by then, which I doubt."

"Can we leave him here tonight?"

"Probably not," Kasper admitted. His gaze flicked to hers. "Go back to the castle. I'll wait here."

"Not a chance," she said. "Do you know how much your parents would kill me if I showed back up and you didn't?"

"Syeira—"

"If you're staying, I'm staying," Syeira said. "We'll figure this out together, even if you _have_ suddenly decided to hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"No?"

"No." Kasper pushed past her, ignoring Vaughan's facedown form on the mattress. "There should be another bedroom here—hold on." He left the room, Syeira following, and opened doors until he found one that led to an enclosed bedroom. "Here. You take this one and I'll sleep on the couch."

She balked. "You can't sleep on the couch!"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because—it's barbaric!" she burst out.

Kasper rose his eyes heavenward and seemed to silently count to three. "I've had far worse sleeping arrangements, I guarantee you."

She flushed. "I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't." He reached out to touch her, but then seemed to think better of it, his hand dropping to his side. He exhaled. "Do you need something to sleep in?"

"I don't… I don't think so."

"Are you sure? You want to sleep in _that_?" he said, eying her corseted dress. "I'm sure some of my mother's clothes are still here."

"Of course I'm not going to sleep in this," she said, exasperated. "But I'll pass on wearing your mother's nightgowns, thanks."

Kasper furrowed his brows. "If you're not going to sleep in that, then what…?"

"Kasper," she said patiently, her lips twitching. "I was rather thinking I just wouldn't sleep in… well, _much._ At all."

It took him a second.

His cheeks flushed red. " _Oh."_

She laughed a bit. "I should actually probably keep watch over Vaughan, though. If he's going to be coming down from an opium high, there's—"

"I'll take care of that," Kasper said. "I'll sleep on the couch in my mother's room."

"Do you know how to take care of someone that's coming down from opium?" she said, plopping her hands on her waist.

"Do _you_?"

"Kasper, I'm a _healer._ " She held up her scarred fingers, waggling them. "I know exactly how. And furthermore, how many times do you think I did the same thing for Raiden?"

"Raiden was an opium addict?"

"No, not an addict," she said, darkening with the memory. "But every once in awhile, he'd get it in his head to do something particularly stupid. I usually talked him _down_ to opium. I had to come with him, of course, but it worked out in the end."

Kasper scowled. "Raiden dragged you to opium dens?"

"I wouldn't say _dragged,_ " she said. "Both of us liked to raise hell."

"Do you know how dangerous that is? Syeira, for gods' sakes."

"Of course I know now," she snapped. "But Raiden and I had our own demons to deal with, Kasper. They weren't anything like yours, and they weren't anything like Leta's. But we were both at Morath. I was _there_. And while you've been struggling with accepting the responsibilities of being a king for what, two years, I've been dealing for _sixteen._ "

Kasper matched her gaze. He was oddly angry—a muscle ticked his jaw, and the skin around his lips was white. Finally, he said, "Help Vaughan if you want."

"Take the bed," she said. "Get some sleep. You look like hell."

"So do you."

" _Charming,"_ she said. "Thank you, Kasper. I can see why you're such a favorite at court."

He stormed past her into the room, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

She glared after him. _Asshole, asshole, asshole._ She didn't know what had gotten into him.

She went back into what had once been Aelin's room. Vaughan was still lying facedown, and she rolled him back over. His hair was plastered to his skin with sweat.

She sighed, making a stack of pillows and propping him up on them to make sure he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. She retrieved a trash can and went to the bathroom, rummaging around until she found a few bowls and washcloths, and turned on the taps on the bathtub, filling one bowl up with hot water, the other with cold.

Syeira went into the kitchen, grabbing a few other things—herbs, to make a tincture for Vaughan to swallow, a glass of water; a cup of tea.

She winced, pressing a hand to her side, leaning against the kitchen counter. Her corset was digging into her ribs, making her short of breath.

It didn't matter. She'd survive.

Syeira found her way back to the bedroom, unclasping her cloak and throwing it over the arm of the couch. She arranged everything meticulously, pinning her hair up on her head.

Glancing at the closet door, she bit her lip. Her corset really was killing her, and if she was going to spend the night on the couch…

She went over to the closet, walking in cautiously. It was full of elegant, luxurious dresses, and Syeira's eyes widened. They were out-of-fashion by a decade and a half or so, but still beautiful, dripping with brocade and jewels.

Rows upon rows of shoes. Jackets, tunics, leggings; skirts and chemises. Syeira needed to have a talk with Aelin about fashion one of these days.

She pulled open the top drawer of the dresser and froze.

Oh. _Oh._

Lacy, sheer scraps of lace that Syeira supposed were nightgowns.

Well. Rowan had been… entertained, it appeared.

For half a second, Syeira thought about knocking on Kas's doors clad in nothing but a nightgown, but she immediately discarded the thought. _Maybe one day._

No, not _one day._ She would not be doing _that_ anytime soon, _thank you very much._

She shook her head, sifting through the nightgowns until she found something that landed near her knees. Still sleeveless, still embroidered with lace, still corsetless, but she could throw a sweater over it and call it even without shocking Vaughan when he woke up. She slipped out of her dress, silk pooling around her feet, and tugged the nightgown on over her head, reaching on the shelf and shucking a woolen sweater on over her head.

She padded back out to the room, grabbing her clothes and tossing them into a forgotten hamper in the corner of the room. She folded her arms, looking down at Vaughan with disdain.

"Alright," she said. "It's just you and me tonight. Let the vomiting and sweats begin."

—

Vaughan was bad, but she'd conditioned worse.

It took a few hours for him to start coming off his high. The fever dreams, in Syeira's experience, were always the worst: delusions of silver-winged creatures batting about temples and twirling strands of hair round their clawed fingertips; dead lovers brought back to life only through the haze of a killing drug.

She didn't understand what he was saying half the time; they were aimless rambles. She'd placed cold cloths on his forehead for the hot sweats and warm linens for the cool ones, providing a wastebasket when he needed to throw up.

But sometimes she earned snippets. He'd beg for forgiveness from the men that he'd been commanded to kill—a list of names dizzying and horrifying, one that made Syeira reconsider her judgment of Lorcan, Rowan, and Gavriel.

And he talked about someone else. Someone named Minya.

"I'm sorry," Vaughan whispered through blood-flecked lips, tears streaking down his cheeks. "Minya, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _I'm sorry. Please don't go._ " A loose, trembling sob escaped his mouth. "I'm not strong enough to do this own my own, Minya. You know I'm not. You always said so."

That was the worst part of taking someone's hand and leading them down the other side of the mountain. The vomit faded into the background, the blood evaporated into the air, but the deathbed confessions always remained, remembered only by the healer.

There were two names that Vaughan whispered, again and again and again.

 _Minya, Minya, Minya, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me._

And… Leta.

He said Leta's name. Rather a lot.

"Do you still look at the stars?" he'd murmured as Syeira had changed his cloths. She'd frozen, thinking for a moment that he was talking to her, which would have been good—he would've been lucid, at least—but a moment later, he said, " _Leta."_

But he did not say it like one would say a name. He whispered it like one would make a vow.

He never talked about her for long; even his feverish brain seemed to want to skirt around the edges of her. But every so often, he'd say something that would give Syeira pause.

 _Tell me something you've never told anyone else._

 _You shouldn't be afraid of the water._

 _You got yourself out of that forest. I had nothing to do with it._

 _I think I'm… but it doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't matter if I love you._

This last one had made Syeira drop her bowl of water, liquid soaking into the carpet.

"I think I'm… but it doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't matter if I love you." Vaughan laughed hazily. "But that's alright. It's always been alright. I wrecked it anyway."

Syeira wasn't going to be able to look Leta in the eye next time she saw her. _Gods almighty._

Finally— _finally_ —his fever broke, the rest of the opium leaving his system in one last retch, and he fell asleep.

She gritted her teeth, walking around until she found a pile of linens. She'd moved Vaughan onto the floor, changing the bedding and drying him off as best as he could. She'd tried to find some new clothes, too—new trousers, at least—but all she'd been able to find was a dresser full of boys' clothes, made for someone built, but nowhere close to where Vaughan was.

She supposed the other bedroom might have something—it was where Aedion had probably stayed, after all—but that would mean interacting with Kasper and his foul mood.

 _Gods damn it._

Syeira left the room in the nightgown and sweater, walking through the halls. Dawn had begun to filter in through the windows, landing in dappled rays over the floorboards in shades of pink camellia and lemon-yellow freesias.

She found Kasper sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea.

He was barefoot, with a horrible case of bedhead, tendrils of his hair sticking up in every direction. His eyes were bleary, circles lurking in indigo smudges, and stubble coated his chin.

He was also shirtless.

She stopped in her tracks and stared.

She'd seen him shirtless before, but that had been two years ago, when he'd still been slightly skeletal. Now…

Now the scars were faded with time, white stripes instead of red welts. He'd filled out a bit, his shoulders broadened, his…

Gods. _Gods._ She couldn't stop staring at the hard planes of his chest.

He glanced up at her, raising his mug to his lips, but the cup halted abruptly an inch from his mouth as he absorbed her appearance, water sloshing over the rim. He cursed fluently as his tea scalded his wrist, setting the cup down and shaking his hand furiously.

Syeira hurried over to the cabinet, taking out a bowl and filling it with cold water. She set it down on the table before him, putting his wrist in the water.

"Here," she said. "This'll help."

He swallowed audibly. "Thank you."

She sat down beside him, pressing her fore and middle fingers to her temple. "Is that tea caffeinated?"

Wordlessly, he passed it to her. She lifted it to her lips, downing a sizeable amount. It burned her tongue and throat going down, but she welcomed it; relished it.

"Vaughan's fever broke," she said.

"I know."

She sent him an inquisitive glance, and he tapped his ears. Fae senses—he'd probably heard every word that Vaughan said.

"How long have you been up?" she asked.

"All night. Couldn't sleep." He hesitated. "Syeira, I'm sorry. For… last night."

"I don't blame you," she said, reaching out her hand and squeezing his fingers. "If anyone knows hissy fits, it's me."

He cracked an exhausted smile. "You smell like herbs."

"I can't decide whether to take that as a compliment or insult."

"The former," he said immediately. "You smell like thyme and sage."

"I had to make do with what was left in your mother's kitchen," she joked, but her cheeks pinked. She cleared her throat. "You smell like rosemary and pepper, so long as we're playing the scents game."

He dimpled. "Really."

She laughed tiredly. "Yes, really."

"You sound exhausted."

"You should look in a mirror," she said. "But yes, I wouldn't pass up the opportunity to sleep. I came to see if there were any of Aedion's clothes left in his old room."

"Maybe," he said. "Why?"

"I need to get Vaughan out of his old ones." She gulped down more tea. "Someone needs to go back to the castle. I'm sure we're worrying them."

Kasper groaned and slammed his head against the table. "I can't deal with my parents right now."

"Mine either."

"There is," Kasper said firmly, "no facing my mother or my father on less than six hours of sleeps. It simply isn't done."

She giggled. "If you want, you can take _my_ mother. Her claws come out when she gets angry."

He winced. "Gods."

"Or," she said, "you can have Dad's disapproving frown, which is almost worse."

"How high up do you think we are?" Kasper said, appraising the window speculatively.

"Enough."

He chuckled, pressing his cheek against the table. "The two of us are horrible."

"The worst," she agreed, putting her head down beside his. Their eyes were only inches from each other, and she saw his breath catch in his throat.

Kasper had nice eyelashes.

"I'm sorry, too," she said. "For calling you Raiden. And being kind of… irritating."

"You don't have to be sorry for that," he said. "I had a short fuse last night, and you were on the receiving end. _I'm_ sorry."

"This is a fun game," she said dryly.

"I think so too."

Kasper's eyelids fluttered shut. "I have to tell Leta, don't I?"

"That's up to you," Syeira said. "But… yes. Yes, you do."

"Fuck."

She paused. "Do you want to help me change Vaughan's clothes?"

"Not even a little."

She smiled, standing up. "It'll work out, Kasper. It always does."

—

 **VAUGHAN**

Everything hurt.

 _Fuck,_ everything hurt.

He groaned, rolling over on his side. He retched, but nothing came up, as if he'd already hurled. It _felt_ like he had; his throat was torn and shredded.

He let out a muffled curse, putting a hand to his head. What had _happened_? Where _was_ he?

He didn't remember anything from last night, except for the opium den—the cloud of smoke, the smoldering ashes in the bowl…

He didn't do it often. That had only ever been the third time he'd tried it in his century of existence or so, and he was _never doing it again._

He was lying in an opulent, canopied bed, windows on either side of him spilling in fresh daylight. The carpet was thick, the wallpaper patterned with gilded roses, and he could see a shining lavatory and an expansive closet through doors in the walls. There was something familiar about the scent of this room.

 _Whitethorn. Ashryver._ And… _Galathynius._

Not just Aelin and Aedion and Rowan. Her son, too. And another scent, one that Vaughan didn't know as well, but laced with noble lineage all the same.

"Shit," Vaughan wheezed. " _Shit."_

Someone rustled in the couch at the foot of his bed—a girl. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, and appallingly beautiful, with dark curls and golden eyes, tanned skin and chapped, raw hands.

"Oh," she said. "You're up."

It took a moment for him to place her, but then he did. Syeira Crochan-Havilliard.

"Where _am_ I?" Vaughan whispered.

She sat up. She was wearing a ridiculous ensemble; a sweater thrown over a cotton nightgown.

Briefly, Vaughan remembered another night—an inn in the Cambrians, another cotton nightgown, antimony hair…

 _Fuck._

"Here," Syeira said, pouring him a glass of water from a pitcher on the nightstand. "Drink this."

He accepted it, downing the glass in a single swallow. She rose a brow but refilled it. "You're in Rifthold," she said. "In Adarlan."

"That much I got, darling," Vaughan said, grimacing at a sudden pain in his side. "Why does the left side of my face feel like it got caved in by a brick?"

"That would be me," a voice said from the doorway.

Vaughan smiled grimly. "Kasper Galathynius. My, aren't you grown up."

"You might want to start thanking us," Kasper added, striding into the room with a lethal prowl. He'd gotten taller and more muscled since Vaughan had seen him last, and he collapsed in a chair with a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"Didn't he say he gave me this lovely present?" Vaughan asked Syeira, gesturing to his face.

"Don't worry," she said. "You deserved it."

"I found you dancing on opium, picking fights and getting drunk in the Pits," Kasper said. "All I was trying to do was take a walk through Rifthold, mind you."

Vaughan flexed his fingers. "Not one of my better moments, I'll admit."

"We got you back here," Syeira said. "It's an old warehouse of Aelin's. And I cleaned you up."

Vaughan nodded. "Thank you, darling. I highly appreciate it. I'm sure my thanks would be prettier were my head not filled with tiny jigging Fair Folk."

"My sister doesn't know you're here," Kasper said bluntly.

Vaughan had to count to five.

"No," he said, pleased when his voice didn't shake. "I imagine she does not."

"I need to know whether or not to tell her."

"And what—you think I'm the one that should make that call?" Vaughan said bitterly. "Last I checked, she was the one that sent me away, not the other way around."

Kasper and Syeira exchanged looks.

"I didn't know that," Syeira said.

"I didn't, either," said Kasper suspiciously.

"Night of Aelin's coronation ball," Vaughan said. "She snuck down, gave me a cloak, and told me to get the hell out. So I did."

"I thought you escaped," Kasper muttered. "We all did. Why didn't she say anything?"

 _Because she picks and chooses which parts of her heart to show._

 _Once she showed me a great deal._

 _Once she might have showed the world a great deal._

 _Now she is careful, and quiet._

"I don't know," Vaughan said. "By the by, do either of your parents know you're here?"

Neither of them answered.

"I'd be more concerned about _that_ if I were you," said Vaughan. "Last I checked, Kasper dear, your father has a rather wicked temper. And he's nothing compared to your mother."

Kasper glared at Vaughan. "Do you want me to tell Leta or not?"

It was the first time any of them had said her name, and it hit Vaughan like a stone to the chest.

Stars, secrets, and silver fire. These were the things he remembered, lingering on the surface, when he let himself get close enough to the flame to burn.

His chest hitched.

"Why are you here, Kasper?" Vaughan said instead, voice shaking marginally. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Your own country, perhaps?"

Kasper folded his arms. "My father got a letter from Syeira's father a few weeks ago. The king of Eyllwe wrote to King Dorian not too long ago—forces have been sighted in the south, near the Bogdano."

Vaughan sat up, biting back the bile that rose in his throat. "Erawan's?"

"We think so," Syeira said.

"So you're here, what, to confer?" Vaughan said. "Shouldn't you be moving south instead?"

"We only arrived yesterday," Kasper snapped.

Vaughan put his hand to his forehead. "Please, for the love of all the gods, _do not raise your voice._ "

"Maybe I shouldn't tell my sister after all," Kasper said, sounding disgusted. "Clean yourself up, Zamil."

Vaughan growled. "If I weren't bedridden, _prince_ , I would have—"

"Last I heard," Kasper said, eyes glittering like tourmaline stones, "you couldn't get my father to kneel before you, let alone me."

"Alright," Syeira interrupted, putting her hands up. "Unless you want me to fetch a table and a measuring stick for a dick-measuring contest, I think we're done."

Kasper choked.

"Kasper," Syeira said, "you need to go back to the castle. Get your sister."

" _I'm_ not going back," he said. "Why can't _you_?"

"Because," she said patiently, "your parents _hate me._ In fact, everyone at the castle right now hates me. Don't even try to argue, you know I'm right."

"You're not," he said.

"I am," she said. Vaughan blinked; Syeira had grown up some in the two years since he'd last seen her. "But that's fine. Everyone there loves you; if you get caught, Aelin will only take out a wing of the castle. If I show up, she'll take out all of it."

"She has a point," Vaughan commented.

"Shut up." Kasper grabbed a fistful of his hair. "I don't want to do this. I really, really don't."

"I know," Syeira said.

He glared at her, but there was something softer in his gaze than when he directed that stare towards Vaughan.

Kasper liked Syeira, Vaughan realized. And the feeling was mutual.

Interesting.

"What's your animal form, anyway?" Syeira asked. "I don't suppose you could just… _fly_?"

"It's not anything with wings," Kasper said curtly.

"So then what is it? Some kind of bear?"

"It is not a _bear._ "

"That would be fascinating though, wouldn't it?" said Vaughan.

"I'll go," Kasper said, heading toward the door. "I'll run there—I'll be back in a half an hour, tops." He scrutinized Vaughan. "In the meantime, dickhead, you should probably take a bath."

Vaughan's heart had begun to thunder in his chest. "Wait. You're not actually going to get—"

"Leta? Yes, I am." Kasper grinned, but it was more a baring of teeth than a smile. "Last I checked, she was the only one who knew how to successfully deal with your problematic disaster of an existence."

Under her breath, Syeira whistled. "Harsh, Kas."

Vaughan straightened, pushing aside the pounding in his temples. "I've seen things you've never _dreamed_ of, you pathetic—"

"That's right," Kasper snarled, suddenly, surprisingly feral. Judging by the look on Syeira's face, she was just as shocked. "You're old, aren't you? Old and worldly and gods know what else. And you decided that it was fine—that it was _alright_ —to take advantage of my sister in the mountains, to fuck her—"

Vaughan didn't know how or when he did it. All he knew was that one moment he was lying in bed in strange clothes that smelled faintly of Aedion Ashryver, and the next he had Kasper Galathynius pinned against the wall, a knife Vaughan had slid from Kasper's boot connecting Kasper's shirt to the plaster.

Syeira shrieked.

"I did _nothing_ ," Vaughan said, chest rising and falling unsteadily, "of the sort. I did _not_ take advantage of her."

"Really," Kasper drawled.

"Yes, _really,_ " Vaughan spat. "Is that what she says?"

"Of course it's not," Kasper said. "You know she wouldn't do that."

He was right. Vaughan _did_ know.

"You have no fucking idea," Vaughan said vehemently, " _no fucking idea,_ of what I feel for her or what she feels for me, and _no idea_ what we went through together in those mountains. _Do you._ "

Kasper had the decency to avert his eyes.

"So before," Vaughan hissed, "you go on making assumptions on subjects about which you are woefully uninformed, you might want to take a step back and reconsider what facts you _do_ have, and go from _there,_ Kasper Galathynius."

A muscle ticked in Kasper's jaw. "I'm sorry."

Vaughan's hand fell away. "As you should be."

"But for the record," Kasper said, "I will never, _ever_ forgive the wrong you dealt my sister."

"You're not the one I want forgiveness from," Vaughan replied, stalking back to the bathroom and slamming the door in the prince of Terrasen's face.

—

 **LETA**

Leta sprawled out over her bed in the Rifthold castle, flipping through the pages of a book.

It was poetry—a slim, leather-bound volume she'd read a hundred times before. Her copy had been battered almost without recognition, pages dog-eared and marked with ink, notes scrawled in the margins.

Leta always thought that had she not been a princess, she would have liked to be a librarian.

But her eyes skimmed over the verses— _and in the sea i / still cannot see your / face floating in the waves / as you have promised / me_ —and passed them by.

Kasper and Syeira were missing.

Not officially. Leta highly suspected that they were not missing in the sense of _danger_ —at least not the immediately life-threatening kind. But she wasn't about to mention this to her parents, who were on a homicidal rampage.

Last she'd seen, Dorian and Aelin were hollering at each other in the middle of the throne room, and Manon and Rowan were facing off with their respectively terrifying snarls.

Leta had decided that her presence probably wasn't _required._

There came a soft rap on her door, and Leta lifted her head, sniffing, and launched out of her bed. She hauled open the door, and sure enough, Kasper stood on the other side, hands tucked into his pockets, a despondent expression on his face.

Quickly, she tugged him into the room. "Kasper Galathynius," she said. "Where have you _been_?"

"What," Kasper muttered, "is with the first name, last name?"

Leta paused, catching a whiff of something…

Something…

Mountains. Air that smelled of pine, of snow—a leather coat that smelled of smoke and cloves. An arm wrapped around her sleeping body, pulling her close, whispering in her ear. A sense of _rightness_ in her chest.

The blood drained from her face.

"I was taking a walk with Syeira," Kasper began, but she knew. She knew from the scent and from the look on Kasper's face.

"Where is he?" she said quietly.

Kasper didn't answer.

"Where is he?" she asked again, panicked now. "Is he alright? Is he safe? He's not hurt, is he?"

"Not… technically."

"Take me to him," she said.

"Leta—"

His face.

She had never been able to forget his face, or his laugh, or the way his lips moved when he called her _love._

She had never been able to forget what it had felt like, flying with him—weightless and _free_ , back when she had been a nobody, a nothing, unloved and uncherished by everything but the stars.

 _I love you._

That was what he had said. _I love you._

She'd never said it back.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, stepping away from Kasper.

"Take me to him," she whispered.

But when she said _take me to him,_ she meant _take me home._

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter was supposed to accomplish so many more things, but it ended up being so many pages of nothing. (Which, coincidentally, is what I'm going to title my autobiography.)**

 **REVIEW THANK-YOU LIST TIME!**

 **Diana Black 12**

 **Guest (YES. Elide and Lorcan will be making a reappearance soon, along with more Evangeline and Gavriel.)**

 **kittysniper9**

 **Nerdgirl2389**

 **Bianca di' Angelo1**

 **BookBabbles (My Hamilton reference was unintentional... I haven't actually gotten around to listening to the soundtrack yet. *lowers head in shame* My sister keeps on trying to get me to do it. I promise, I'll listen to it soon! :P)**

 **pomxxx**

 **Guest (AGH! Yes, Kasper DOES have Whitethorn eyes, thanks for pointing that out! Will go back to fix that ASAP. So sorry. :/)**

 **Guest**

 **Guest (For the poor soul on International Baccalaureate: I have friends that go through the same struggle, and I'm both honored and so, so sorry.)**

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 **THANK YOU GUYS ALL SO MUCH! You guys are the best, seriously. :D**


	22. Chapter 21

**A/N: I'm back! Unfortunately, spring break is over for me *weeps*, and from here on out, my life is going to get a little batshit crazy. I can't promise super fast updates, but I'm certainly going to try.**

 **Thank you to all lovely reviewers! You guys make my day.** **Seriously.**

 **RECAP: Syeira and Kasper ran into a drunken, high Vaughan in the slums of Riftholdd and carted him off to Aelin's old warehouse. After Vaughan sobered up a bit, Kasper went to go fetch Leta, who is en route.**

 **Calynn Havilliard is the third child of Dorian and Manon, the one without magic. She's a bit (read: hella) nicer than Syeira or Orion, though.**

 **Gavriel and Lorcan are currently in Terrasen, guarding the country while Rowan and Aelin head south. Gavriel recently ran into Evangeline Orabel and her daughter, Cat. Evangeline is still mourning the death of her husband, Hadrian.**

 **Raiden and Fenrys are still way the hell east, looking for Maeve. Raiden made a friend (much to Fenrys's irritation) named Emery, who agreed to take them to the forest where Maeve was presumably headed on the condition that they get Emery out of her hellish town. Emery was reluctant, though, because she'd heard stories of a gray-skinned woman living in that forest, and no one that went in ever came out.**

 **Not exactly promising.**

 **ENJOY! :D**

* * *

CHAPTER 21

 **CALYNN**

Calynn sat in the corner of the library, chewing her thumbnail.

It was her favorite time of day, the minutes after sunset, just before night swept across the horizon. The sky was bleached, full of an _absence_ of color, trees and rooftops of Rifthold an etched, shadow-puppet silhouette.

Spread out before her on the table was scroll upon scroll of tiny, compact handwriting, all given to her by Ghislaine. The witch had found the scrolls tucked in the library archives while on her mission to find out what, exactly, had happened with Dallie—now Daleka—and Syeira.

Calynn put her fingers to her temples. She'd been jotting down notes for hours, and the lines of text had begun to blur before her eyes.

Syeira wasn't there. She'd run off—again.

So had Kasper, apparently. He was handsome enough, Calynn supposed, with a crop of golden hair and irises that shone fervently as jewels. But then again, Calynn had never been one to be interested in boys. She'd never understood her sister's fascination with them, or what made Syeira invite Raiden into her bed all those years ago.

Calynn had seen the way that Syeira looked at Kasper and been at a loss to comprehend it. On a surface level, she processed what she saw. But despite the fact that Calynn was fourteen, she'd never had any sort of… _desire_ for that kind of thing. Somehow, she didn't think she'd ever look at a boy like that.

She returned her attention to the scroll. Old, nearly-indecipherable writing, ancient and convoluted enough to make Calynn want to bang her head against the table.

She did, for good measure. _Thud._

"That," said a voice behind her, "looks slightly counterproductive."

Calynn jumped. Sorrel, her mother's third, strode up to the table, one black brow cocked. That was as much emotion as Calynn had ever seen Sorrel show.

"Sorry," Calynn said, flushing.

Sorrel peered over the table, hands clasped behind her back, examining the documents. For as long as Calynn could remember, she'd known Sorrel, but at the same time, she hadn't, not really. Her mother's third never came to Rifthold, instead presiding over the Crochan Kingdom alongside Asterin, her mother's second, while Manon was in Adarlan. Over the years Calynn had spent in the Crochan Kingdom, she'd caught passing glimpses of Sorrel, but nothing more.

Their paths had crossed, but only briefly. Enough for Calynn to know that Sorrel was dependable, unflappable, smooth and unbreaking as a face of granite. Enough for Calynn to recognize Sorrel's lovely dark hair, plaited into a slender, curving braid, and her unblemished, caramel-tinted skin.

Calynn's cheeks reddened further, but she wasn't sure why.

"I think," commented Sorrel at last, "that if I had to read these, I would bang my head against a desk, too."

Calynn let out a short, surprised laugh. She'd never heard Sorrel make anything close to a joke before.

Sorrel blinked, momentarily taken aback, before offering Calynn a surprised smile, as if she wasn't used to people laughing at the few jokes she did make.

"Your mother sent me to fetch you," Sorrel said. "She said you might be here."

"I was trying to help Ghislaine," Calynn explained.

Sorrel picked up the notebook that Calynn had been writing in, flipping through the pages of notes. This time, both of her brows lifted. "You did all this?"

"I tried," Calynn admitted. "Most of it is probably nonsense."

"Doesn't look like nonsense to me," Sorrel said, still leafing through.

Calynn smiled wearily. "Appearances can be deceptive." She paused. "I thought you were still in the Crochan Kingdom."

"I was," Sorrel said, putting the book down. "Your mother sent word a few weeks ago, right after your father received the letter from the king of Eyllwe. She asked that Asterin and I join her here."

"I'm glad you're in Rifthold, at any rate," Calynn said. "You make my mother happier when you're around."

Sorrel opened her mouth, surprised, before laughing; a short, breathy huff that made Calynn's smile widen unconsciously. "You're very blunt, aren't you?"

"So they say," Calynn said, shrugging.

Sorrel studied Calynn a moment longer. "I think," she said after a moment's hesitation, "that we could all do with a little honesty now and then."

"That's always been my opinion."

Sorrel's lips twitched. "I like you, Calynn."

"Call me Callie," Calynn said. "Most everyone does."

"Callie, then," Sorrel said.

Sorrel was awfully pretty, Calynn thought. She'd never really noticed before, but she noticed now. Sorrel was small, compact with lithe, corded muscles. She seemed _steady._ And surprisingly funny.

Calynn loved surprisingly funny people.

She stood up, pushing her chair into the table and gathering up the scrolls and notes, shoving the latter into her bag and hefting the others into her arms to return to the librarian. "Did my mother say why she wanted me?"

"Something about Syeira," Sorrel said. "And going missing."

"Again." Calynn's lips flattened.

Sorrel flicked her eyebrows up. This, Calynn had already realized, was a trademark move of Sorrel Blackbeak's: the slight alteration in her features, minute and near-invisible, but enough to make her feelings made clear.

"Hm," Sorrel said. There was a brief quiet before Sorrel said, "Terrasen's Crown Prince seems to be missing as well."

"Oh, I know," said Calynn. "And I'd bet my life my parents do, too."

Sorrel coughed delicately, and Calynn pushed aside her misgivings and offered her a smile. "I like you too, Sorrel. Just so you know we're even."

"Even," Sorrel repeated.

"Even. Equal." Calynn wound her fingers together. "The same."

Sorrel studied her for a moment. "You're not anything like your sister," she said at last.

Calynn's face fell.

Because, of course, she wasn't. Syeira was _memorable_ —it was her world, and Calynn was only living in it. Her world and Orion's, Calynn amended mentally. The two heirs were each striking, burning brightly enough to blot her into the background. No one noticed Calynn when Syeira was around, and why would they? Not everyone liked Syeira—many didn't—but no one _forgot_ Syeira. It was impossible.

Syeira walked like a queen. Orion prowled like the beautiful, dangerous creature that he was, looking only vaguely human with his white hair and sapphire eyes, his mouthful of pointed iron teeth and claws. He was so _powerful_ —both of them were. They were the lethal children of warriors, the sort of heir that made foreign ambassadors go white and back away slowly, as if placating a lion or a feral hound.

The ambassadors and emissaries knew that a lion or hound was far, far less treacherous than the Crown Princess or Prince of Adarlan and the Crochan Kingdom.

Manon and Dorian had pooled their magic and volatility into their first two children and made lovely monsters of steel. Calynn had been what was left.

She was the only one of her siblings that didn't have a drop of magic. Oh, she was beautiful, with her heterochromatic eyes—one gold, one blue—and her long hair. But she wasn't _extraordinary._

Syeira got the luxury of going missing, because Syeira was irreplaceable. Calynn was…

Calynn had to work twice as hard to get half the attention devoted to her sister. No; _ten_ times as hard to get a _tenth._ She pushed herself to death, making herself charming, sweet, poring over books and maps and teaching herself to become proficient in every way.

But it was never enough. She had inherited her father's kindness and her mother's determination with none of their steel—no fire behind it. Not enough, anyway.

Theirs was a world of fire, and Calynn barely had an ember in her cupped palms.

Even nine-year-old Bevyn was a wicked, playful thing, his magic suited to mischief. One day, he would become a general—would lead armies with skill and dexterity, would flatten battlefileds with the magic morphine even now in his veins.

And Calynn would play the piano and smile, because that was all Calynn knew how to do. All she _could_ do.

She was horribly, pathetically human. And she hated it.

"I didn't mean it in a bad way," Sorrel said quickly, noticing Calynn's expression.

"I know," Calynn said quietly.

"I prefer you to your sister, if you want to know the truth," said Sorrel.

Calynn offered Sorrel a weary grin that turned into a grimace. "Thank you," Calynn said. "But it's… it's never really been about preference."

"Isn't it?"

"No," said Calynn. "It doesn't matter what… else… I have. Syeira will always be _Syeira,_ and I'm… me."

Sorrel contemplated this for a moment. "Do you know what your mother said to me after Syeira was born?"

Calynn shook her head.

"Syeira almost killed Manon, you know," Sorrel said. "It is—or was—difficult for witches to have children, because of the curse. It was incredible that Manon had conceived at all, let alone at Morath. I half-thought your father would go out of his mind."

Calynn's lips tilted upward a fraction.

"The birth was not easy," said Sorrel. "It was only because Rowan was there, to heal her, that Manon survived at all. And after your sister was born, Manon looked right at me and said, 'This one is a taker.'"

Calynn didn't respond.

"She could tell, I think," Sorrel continued. "That Syeira is someone who _takes._ She does not give. She _takes_ from others—and perhaps it is good that she does. Perhaps we need a queen that takes things for herself.

"Dorian didn't want your mother to have any more children after Syeira, but she did, of course. Children are precious things to witches, and so rare, and she paid him no attention. Orion's birth, too, was horrible. She said the same thing to me. She said, 'My children are takers. They _take._ '"

Calynn considered this for a moment.

Syeira and Orion, they _took._ They snatched attentions, scrabbled up jewels and luxury, grabbed love, snarled at admiration, accepted even hate with open arms. They took and took and took, for the only thing they had to give in return were themselves. Syeira and Orion were _big._ Orion had grown big physically—he was now as tall as their father, and he wasn't near done growing yet—but both of them were larger _inside._ They exuded _presence._

And maybe… maybe the burdens that they would have to bear because of their presence and the crown that came with it would even out all that taking in the end. But gods, they took. They even sucked the oxygen from the room.

Calynn felt, sometimes, like she couldn't breathe when she was around them.

"You were an easy birth," Sorrel said. "The last child to be born at Morath. Your brother and sister were born in killing, in hate, and in blood. You were born from grief and the light at the end. And your mother looked at you, and looked at me, and Asterin, and said, 'This one is a giver.'"

Calynn laughed a little, but it was short. "And what did she say when Bevy was born?"

"'This one will give me hell.'"

Calynn tipped her head back and let out a full laugh this time, and she saw Sorrel's eyes watch her, their gaze steady.

Something flickered in the bottom of Calynn's stomach.

"You are not your sister," Sorrel said in that calming, easy voice, and this time, Calynn didn't feel that drop in her chest. "And thank the matron for that. I do not think the world could handle another Syeira Blackbeak Crochan Havilliard."

Sorrel added the _Blackbeak._ It was always there, of course, on birth certificates and official signatures, but people rarely added it to the beginning of Calynn's family name. It sounded ostentatious when most said it, like calling Kasper or Leta _Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius._ 'Ashryver Galathynius' was bad enough, and so was 'Crochan-Havilliard.'

But when Sorrel said it, the name didn't sound like that at all. It sounded like a reminder—that even though Calynn might not have had iron claws and teeth, or the power to bring back the dead, or enough might to shatter a castle, she was still the daughter of a witch and a rawly gifted king, and she had their mettle, if not their magic.

"I think your mother was right, for the record," Sorrel said, brushing her fingers along Calynn's arm. Her skin prickled, as if shocked—but in a pleasant way. "You give."

—

 **GAVRIEL**

Gavriel walked through the gardens at the palace in Orynth, lost in thought, Lorcan beside him.

"We need a plan," Lorcan said, for the fifteenth time.

"We have a plan," replied Gavriel.

"No, we have some bullshit play-it-by-ear scenario cooked up by Galathynius," Lorcan argued.

"It's the best plan that we _can_ have at this point, Lorcan," said Gavriel exhaustedly, swiping a hand over his features. The gardens were cold during winter, frosted with sugary snow, everything but the conifers and holly bushes bare and stark. "There's too much happening and too many unknowns. I still haven't heard news about my granddaughter, let alone—"

Lorcan's growl interrupted him. "I don't like this."

"What? Waiting?" Gavriel shot him a look. "You've become antsy, Lorcan."

Lorcan didn't reply, and Gavriel regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Lorcan _had_ become antsy, but for good reason. He had lived five centuries, had seen life as an endless expanse of killing and more killing, and had come to realize the mistake of falling in love with a creature that came with a shelf life attached.

"I'm sorry," Gavriel said.

"I don't have the luxury of waiting," Lorcan said, turning his gaze to the cornflower sky. "Not anymore. Your son is mortal—you know."

Gavriel sucked in a sharp, ragged breath. "Of course I do."

Lorcan looked as if he were going to say something, but snapped his mouth shut abruptly as the two of them rounded a corner. "Do you hear that?"

Gavriel did hear the sweet, lilting voices, and he also smelled them. The scent of honeycomb, sweet and clover-fresh, a scent that had become familiar to him in the past few days.

"Evangeline," he murmured, more to himself than to Lorcan.

"Orabel?" asked Lorcan. If he noticed anything strange about Gavriel's tone, he didn't comment.

Gavriel took a left, and Lorcan followed him, keeping pace. Gavriel didn't know why he was doing this, why he felt compelled to wander through the skeletal ashes of rosebushes and broken ivy trellises, but he did it, anyway.

If there was anything Gavriel had learned in his centuries of blood and brokenness, it was that he could trust nothing—nothing except for his instincts. He could rely on his gut, if nothing else. Always.

His gut told him to go to the woman with the hair that shone like liquid copper.

He filed through a gap in the hedges, Lorcan on his heels, and paused.

Evangeline and her daughter were playing in the snow. Evangeline was still wearing a crow's-black mourning dress draped with tulle and crepe, a black fur over her shoulders, but she appeared better than the last time Gavriel had seen her, when she'd been wrangling her child to the dining hall. She was smiling, for one thing, even if the smile was worn and thin, and her cheeks were rosy, if only from the cold.

Cat was squealing, tottering through the snow. The edge of her chemise was frosted with ice, but the little girl didn't seem to mind.

"Mommy, Mommy!" Cat said, catching sight of Gavriel and beaming. Her hair was carmine, the color of a redbird's wings. "Look!"

"Good gods," Lorcan said, horrified as Cat scrambled toward them, teetering on chubby, unsteady legs. "Don't let it get too close."

Gavriel glared at Lorcan just as Cat collided with Gavriel's legs. She let out a small hiccup; a muffled _oomph._ "Hello," Gavriel said, peering down at her.

Evangeline glanced over, straightening. Something flickered in her eyes, and her smile disappeared.

"Up!" Cat cried, extending her arms. "Uppy!"

"What does it _want_?" Lorcan asked, curling his lip.

Gavriel ignored him, looking uncertainly at Evangeline. She put a hand on her waist, hesitating before nodding. _Fine._

He kneeled, lifting Cat into his burly, warrior's arms. She squealed, kicking her legs frantically, and Gavriel smiled absentmindedly.

Cat put both of her hands on either side of his cheeks, gazing at him with wide eyes. Gavriel realized that his mouth was open, and she reached out and brushed her stubby fingers against his fangs, her lips parted in awe.

"Oh, gods, Cat," Evangeline said, scrambling over. "Gavriel, I'm so sorry—"

But Gavriel just grinned, widening his mouth, and Cat giggled. She leaned over his shoulder and grabbed one of his slender, pointed ears, fisting the soft cartilage. He yelped, and Evangeline quickly whisked her daughter away, clearly mortified, setting Cat down on the ground.

"I'm so sorry," Evangeline said again. "Cat, honey, you know better."

"It's fine," Gavriel said.

"He speaks for himself," Lorcan clarified. "Don't let that thing get anywhere near me."

" _Lorcan,"_ hissed Gavriel.

Evangeline regarded the former head of the cadre coolly. "Lorcan Salvaterre," she said, name dripping with distaste. "Cowardly butcher. I distinctly remember Lysandra telling me she threw up all over your shoes once." Evangeline's lip curled into the snarl of a predatory cat. "It's a pity it didn't stain."

Lorcan stared at her. Paused. Then looked at Gavriel. "Time to vacate the premises."

"Ignore him," Gavriel said, shaking his head. "Everybody does."

" _Excuse me._ "

Evangeline's eyes crinkled, a bit of warmth leaching into her topaz irises. "I'll take that under advisement."

"I think," said Gavriel, putting his hands in the pockets of his trousers, "you already have."

Evangeline eyed Lorcan. "I hear Elide Lochan has you whipped already," she said, "so I won't bother."

Gavriel choked.

Lorcan turned on his heel, ready to storm away, but Cat shrieked and bolted for him suddenly, throwing her arms around his leg and sitting on his foot.

Lorcan's eyes widened, his pissed expression turning into one of horror and pure fear. "Gavriel," Lorcan said in a strangled voice. "Get it _off._ "

Hastily, Gavriel picked up the child, swinging her into his arms. Lorcan nearly sprinted from the courtyard, muttering curses under his breath and sending an incensed glare at Evangeline and a martyred, betrayed glower at Gavriel.

Evangeline laughed a little, returning her attention to Gavriel. Her eyes fell on Cat, snuggled contentedly in Gavriel's enormous arms. "She likes you," Evangeline said, giggles fading.

"I like her, too," Gavriel admitted. He smiled at Evangeline, and Cat leaned back, framing Gavriel's face in her pudgy hands and kissing his stubbled cheek.

She hummed a bit and buried her face in Gavriel's neck. "Uppy," she murmured sleepily.

When Gavriel looked back at Evangeline, her face had gone white, lips blanched and razor-thin.

"I think," Evangeline said abruptly, "that Cat and I need to get going."

"I'm sorry," Gavriel said, startled, as Evangeline took her daughter back. "I didn't mean to offend you. If this is about Lorcan, he didn't really—"

"It's not about Lorcan," Evangeline cut him off. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Gavriel furrowed his brow. "Evangeline—"

She stiffened. " _What?"_

Gavriel balked, backing up a step and raising his hands. "I'm sorry," he repeated, at a loss.

"Stop fucking apologizing," Evangeline snapped, and Cat's eyes widened as Evangeline stalked through the snow, leaving Gavriel behind.

She did not look back.

She left behind the faint scent of honeysuckle.

—

 **RAIDEN**

Emery led them to the forest.

Raiden could not, for the life of him, figure Emery out. She was quite possibly the most secretive person he had ever met. She did not divulge past information, and she refused to offer her last name, or any details about her family.

After Raiden managed to convince her to bring them to the forest, she left the camp. "I'll be back in an hour," she said.

"Where are you going?"

"None of your gods-damned business," she'd snapped, and he'd let her go, bewildered.

As she'd said, an hour later, she returned. A single leather satchel was tossed over her shoulder, brown-blonde hair pinned back with a pewter clip. It was unnerving, how forgettable her face was: it blended into the background, merging and shifting into shadow and dust, as if her features were carved from wax that melted and slipped and re-formed while she slept.

The next morning, Fenrys and Raiden packed up their camp, and Emery began to lead them to the forest.

For whatever reason, Fenrys had been in a homicidal mood for the past few days as the three of them had trudged eastward, through knee-high thickets and brambles full of wild beasts and creatures Raiden had never heard of, let alone see. Fenrys hadn't been this acrid since Connall had died.

Raiden tried to ask him about it a few times, but Fenrys always brushed him off.

One morning, while the three of them had camped half a mile from the dusty, beaten road's edge, Raiden tried again. Emery was still sleeping in her roll—it was before dawn, before the sky glowed and day came.

Fenrys and Raiden were both hopeless insomniacs. They were always up to watch the sunrise.

"So," Raiden said, his voice almost lost in the sough of the ash and elm trees; the murmur of crickets still chirping merrily beneath the periwinkle horizon. "Are you going to tell me what's been bothering you lately?"

"Nothing's been bothering me."

Raiden leveled a look at Fenrys.

"For gods' sakes," Fenrys half-snarled. " _Enough."_

"Yes," Raiden commented. "You're positively radiating bliss. That's you: blissful. Cheerful. Sanguine…"

Fenrys growled. " _Westfall."_

Raiden froze. "Westfall," he repeated. For some reason, his surname tasted like ash. "Really."

"I'm sorry," Fenrys said through gritted teeth.

"What the hell?" Raiden said. "I'm the one that's seventeen; I should be the moody one."

"Don't worry," Fenrys said grimly, poking the ground with a stick. "You are."

Raiden snorted. "You're putting me to shame."

"Look, I—"

"I just," Raiden said quietly, "wish you would tell me—talk to me."

Fenrys closed his eyes, swallowing hard. "I don't," he muttered, "think you want to hear about this."

"I _do_ ," Raiden insisted, putting his hand on Fenrys's forearm, fingers splaying out across the skin. Something in Raiden's chest twanged, almost audibly, like the _thwung_ of a bowstring.

Fenrys didn't move his arm. His throat bobbed.

"Do you," Fenrys asked, "still think about Syeira?"

Raiden's hand dropped.

Of all the questions…

"Sometimes," admitted Rai. "Do I miss her, you mean? Yes." He paused, considering. "I'm not sure… What do you mean, _think_?"

"Were you in love with her?"

What the _hell_?

"I was, I think," Raiden answered after a pause. "But it wasn't… it was not the healthy kind of love. Being around her made me feel… _less,_ somehow, most of the time. She was my best friend, but… Looking back on it, I'm not sure that we were ever meant to be together. Not like that, anyhow. We weren't good for each other." Raiden swept his hand over his face. "Syeira and I are both made of poison, and we fed off each other's venom—sharpening each other's edges instead of softening them."

"You should be a poet," Fenrys remarked.

"Fen," Raiden said. "Why in the name of the gods would you ask me that?"

Fenrys shook his head. "Never mind. It doesn't—it doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't," Raiden growled. "I want to know _why_."

He didn't know why he wanted to know. He didn't…

Something stirred within him. Something he'd felt before, but only in brief glimpses and snatches.

"It doesn't _matter_."

"Yes, it does—"

It happened so quickly.

In the blink of an eye.

A jagged sharp edge of a millisecond—

—a breath of a moment—

—the grip of a fever-dream—

—and Fenrys leaned over, across the log, and kissed Raiden.

It was like nothing that Raiden had ever felt before.

Wilder. Fiercer.

Unbridled.

 _Teeth and hair and tongue and_

Fenrys jerked back, panting, and Raiden stared, chest heaving.

"Holy fuck," Raiden whispered.

"I'm sorry," Fenrys said, blanching, but Raiden barely heard him.

He was looking at Fenrys—golden-haired, onyx-eyed Fenrys, and—

"Stop talking," Raiden said, and more or less _launched_ himself at Fenrys.

The two of them tumbled off the log into the grass, and Fenrys clearly needed no further encouragement, because then Raiden was beneath him, and the dew of the grass was soaking into his trousers, and he couldn't _breathethinkspeak_

Teeth. Fenrys's wicked, sharp fangs dragged down Raiden's neck, sinking into his skin, and Raiden sucked in a breath, his hands digging into Fenrys's back.

And while a part of him was going, _Am I gay? Whatthehellwhatthehellwhatthehell?_

That part of him was small.

This had been a long, long time coming. A _very_ long time.

Raiden snarled, bringing himself _closer, closer, closer,_ and Fenrys grinned, biting the soft skin of Raiden's neck again.

 _Holy burning hell._

"Don't," Raiden wheezed, " _stop."_

"I'll do my best," Fenrys said against Raiden's ear, and then Fenrys was standing, getting to his feet, and Raiden was mewling with protest, but Fenrys yanked Raiden to his feet and brought him into the tent, flap falling shut, and…

Oh.

 _Oh._

—

 **VAUGHAN**

Vaughan took Kasper's advice and washed up. He reeked of opium smoke and stale alcohol, sweat and blood, and the bathroom at Aelin's warehouse was enormous, brimming with supplies. He grabbed a bar of lavender soap and yanked on the taps, ducking and rinsing until the water turned red-brown with grime.

By the time he stepped out of the shower, drying off with a towel and wrapping it around his waist, the sky had pinked with dusk, the sun lowering on the horizon.

He leaned over the counter, pressing his hands flat against the marble, and stared at his reflection.

He looked like shit.

Gaunt hollows lingered beneath bloodshot pupils. One of his eyes was swollen and blackened, and one of his ears had somehow been pierced, the earlobe oozing with infection over the tiny silver hoop. He'd let his hair get too long, and his skin was peppered with scars and scabs. He'd even earned a new chip on his bottom incisor.

"Fuck," said Vaughan.

His reflection gave no reply.

He stepped out of the bathroom, sniffed, and froze.

In the lavatory, cloaked in a thick perfume of oils and soaps, he had not smelled her naturally. He had not thought to smell for her, had not…

He was an idiot.

Quickly, Vaughan took the clothes that sat on the bed and shucked them on—a pair of brown trousers, a shirt that he didn't bother to button. He didn't trouble himself with the boots Syeira had set out.

He eased out the door. In the kitchen, he could hear Syeira and Kasper talking; their voices slipped over him like so much water.

He didn't care. He honestly, truly didn't.

He followed her scent, bare feet padding as he walked down the hallway until he came to a door. Upon opening it, he found it led to a stairwell. He ascended the steps, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

The stairs led to a paned trapdoor. He opened it, easing himself up onto the roof.

It was a good view of the city. From here, Vaughan could see Rifthold's ancient stone castle in the distance, blurring on the horizon. The gray-brown smudge of the slums faded into a colorful canary's nest as the neighborhoods grew more affluent nearer the palace, the river was a sliver of far-off blue, and he could see the stark webbing of the Oakwald Forest if he looked hard enough, netting the background like a spider's slender appendages.

Vaughan didn't know why he'd come to Rifthold. At first, when Leta had told him to leave, he'd gone west: far away from where Maeve would be, far away from _everything._

He'd gone to the southern half of what used to be the Crochan Kingdom, ruled over by Ansel of Briarcliff while Manon presided over the north. He'd stayed there for a year before making his way back east again—this time toward Orynth.

It had been late summer when Vaughan had returned to Terrasen. The boughs of the trees were sticky with sap and clotted with bugs, and the green came not only from the conifers and the silver-and-emerald flags but from the grass, the stems of natural flowers; the leaves on the deciduous elms and oaks.

The lichen coating the bark. The mossy strips on the Staghorns.

He had gone to Orynth, but he hadn't made it to the castle.

If Leta wanted to see him, he would know. He would know, because she would have looked for him, and he would have heard of it by now.

So he went south instead. First to Meah, on the northeastern coast of Adarlan, and then gradually to Rifthold. He hadn't been planning on staying here long, either. He'd assumed what when he'd had his fill of whatever it was this city of broken glass had to offer, he'd go further south: to Bellhaven, and then to Banjali or Lerida. Maybe back west, to the Red Desert, to Yurpa and Xandria.

Perhaps further south—perhaps to the Southern Continent, where Antica lay in wait.

Time was different for immortals. He had all the time in the world to see Leta again, all the time to reconcile the wrongs that had been dealt.

But now, if what Kasper said was true, if King Haneul was telling the truth, time might be more precious than Vaughan had thought. If Erawan was moving again…

Erawan was different, Vaughan knew. Different from any of the other villains he had ever faced, for a multitude of reasons. For once, Vaughan cared if he was fighting on the side of bad or good—he would not blindly follow Maeve's orders in grim complacency; he would fight her.

And this time… this time, it was not certain that the heroes would win. Vaughan had learned the hard way that heroes often didn't. Tragedies were far more common than happy endings, after all.

Vaughan took a step out onto the roof, shading his eyes. His head still pounded, and his mouth had a thick, dry taste, probably the effects of dehydration and withdrawal, despite the glasses of water he'd downed in quick, rapid succession.

On the edge of the roof, perched on the ledge, was a condor.

He knew it was Leta. He'd forgotten how magnificent she was.

He'd forgotten many things.

He'd remembered her scent, though. Faded flowers pressed in-between the pages of a book, the last drops of perfume in a bottle; the final bit of water in a vase of wilting lilies. It was the aroma of dried-up beauty, the last shreds of loveliness in something that was dying.

Vaughan did not speak. Instead, there was a bright flash of white as he shifted into his osprey form, and his massive form became wings and plumage and claws, and he was dwarfed by Leta's size.

He fluttered over beside her on the rooftop. Neither of them spoke. He was certain that Leta knew that he was there, but she did not bother speaking.

Now was not the time for speaking.

The sky overhead was the shade of clouded mother-of-pearl inlay, and gently, it began to rain. Without swiveling her head, Leta outstretched one of her slender wings to hold over Vaughan's head, shielding him from the rain.

The two of them stayed like that for quite some time, neither of them saying a word, neither of them gazing at each other in their aviary forms, as the rain increased and pounded against the rooftops, the streets, the buildings. Below, ragtag slum children scuffled undeterred, while in the distance, with Vaughan's sharp sight, he could see lace-clad ladies with slender parasols shrieking and taking cover under dripping awnings, hatted sweethearts by their side.

Thunder rumbled across the city. Lightning caught metal rods jammed into roof shingles; ancient trunks in the far-off forest. Vaughan was reminded of Kasper and his supposed gifts for storms and lightning, though he had never seen them up-close.

He would like to, someday. The fact surprised him, but it was true.

He would like to do a great many things, Vaughan realized. He would like to make peace with Leta, and after her family: Kasper, then Aelin, then Rowan. He would like to forge a world and a path where the idea of their knitted fingers was not ludicrous and impossible, where their shared moments did not have to be stolen under stars and sycamore trees pressed in-between the pines.

One day, Vaughan vowed, he would do all this. He was immortal, after all, or close to it: he had all the time in the world to fix what had been bent.

Not broken. Just… bent, out of shape. Out of alignment.

The stars, once rattled, could still be shoved back into their constellations.

But first, there was a war to be fought. The mother-of-pearl shade of the sky was deceptive. Beneath the clouds it was red with coming blood.

He would go to Rowan and Aelin Galathynius, to Aedion Ashryver and his shape-shifter wife, to the raw-magic king and his witch queen (or the witch queen and her raw-magic queen), to Lorcan and Gavriel and whoever was still left standing.

He would go to them and to their children, and he would fight.

And they would let him, because Vaughan was a valuable ally, despite Maeve's oath still poisoning his veins. He might not be able to strategize, for fear of knowing too much. But he could certainly fight, and the most powerful earth-wielding Fae on the face of the world was not a weapon to be discarded.

He would fight for Leta, yes. For her country, for her people.

And he would fight to regain back whatever kindness he still had in him, whatever side of him was not quite beast but _human._ He would fight for the world, because for the first time in seventy-some years, Vaughan wanted to be on the side of _good._

So when the rain stopped, and Leta lowered her damp wing, he shifted.

Back into his Fae form. Back into canines and curling black hair that had gotten too long and dark eyes with flinty flecks of burgundy.

"I'm going south with you," he said.

Leta's head snapped over to him. She did not shift.

"I'm going to fight," he told her quietly. "Alongside you. With you."

That was when Leta shifted.

She was lovely—had gotten lovelier still in the years since he had seen her last. Waves of hair like liquid antimony, blue-and-gold Ashryver eyes. Lips and swooping cheekbones, tanned skin speckled with white scars.

She had filled out her skeletal frame, and her arms and legs were now corded with muscle. She had callouses that came from handling bows and arrows and swords and daggers on her hands.

Her magic crackled, perceptibly, on the air.

He could just see the hint of her tattoo curling around her neck like a predatory python looped round her throat.

"You will not," she said.

"I will."

She worked her mouth. "I said I wanted you out of my life. I said you were supposed to stay away—"

"Not everything is about you, Leta."

She stopped short.

"This is my fight, too." Vaughan looked her dead in the eye. "This is something I have to do for _me_ , not just for you."

"But I am a factor," she said.

"You'll always be a factor for me," said Vaughan, because he was hungover and weak and had no strength to weave pretty deceptions and lies.

"I shouldn't be."

"You're probably right about that," he admitted. "But tomorrow, I'm going to the castle, and I'm going to ask to pledge myself."

"They'll never—"

"They will," Vaughan said, edged with steel, "and you know it."

Frost curled out from beneath the toe of her leather boots, slipping and sliding over the stones.

"Enough," Vaughan said quietly, and the frost stopped, melting into puddles of water, melding with the fallen rain.

"I don't want you to do this," she said, voice cracking. "I don't want you to—to get hurt. To be in harm's way."

"I don't want you in harm's way either, Leta," he said. "But this is who we are, both of us. You said you wanted me away so that you could figure yourself out. Fine. I can tell you who you are right now: you're the princess of Terrasen, probably the most powerful Fae in existence with the exception of your brother. You are not a flower girl in the market, or a baker's assistant. You're a fighter. Just like your father. Just like your mother, like your brother." He took a step closer. "Just like me."

Leta turned away. He could see her trying to compose herself.

"I wanted that, once," she said. "I wanted to go to Varese and open up a flower stall."

"I wanted to become a fisherman," he said. "Syeira Crochan-Havilliard is afraid of her crown. So is your brother. Aelin was terrified of it, and from what I hear, Rowan only survived through the first years of Terrasen because he had a slew of people to help. Crowns are horrible things, Leta. They come with a price."

She laughed, but it was not a happy sound. "When did you become so poetic? Where's charming, roguish Vaughan?"

"He's still here, love," he said. "He'll come out when you're ready."

She pivoted back to face him. The rain had made her kohl streak in thick black lines down her cheeks. "I don't want you to go."

"I know," Vaughan replied.

"I want more time."

"I know," he said. "And for some things, you'll get it. Not for Erawan. But you and me?" He offered her a wry, crooked smile. "We have all the time in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," she responded. "Our time is borrowed."

And without another word, she shifted, glowing like a firefly and making her way through the rain-sodden city, a single, lonely bird against a landscape ravaged by lightning and storms.

—

 **RAIDEN**

The world came back to him in pieces.

An arm slung over his chest. Muscled, tattooed. A face buried into his neck, golden hair spilling out over Raiden's skin that was not his.

He was bare-chested. He wore, in fact, nothing.

His body was sore in a way that was familiar and not—recognizable but still utterly new, pulsing. A spot near his collarbone was throbbing; he reached up his index and middle finger and found a set of puncture marks.

Fenrys was stomach-down, sprawled on top of him, sleeping like the dead.

Raiden gazed down at him.

So… alright.

Raiden didn't know how, but he was about ninety percent sure that he was in love with Fenrys. And not in the kind of love that he would expect to have for a boy, either. This was something deeper—something stronger even than what he'd felt for even Syeira.

He was gay. The sex had proved that, at least. Or, if not gay, then… bisexual.

That was new. New, unexpected, but not bad.

Just… different.

He tried the words out in his mind. _I am in love with Fenrys._

They did not sound strange. It was as if some part of him had known it already.

This was not what he had felt for Syeira, not even close. This was something else.

He had never known…

Kissing Fenrys was like standing on the edge of a cliff—no, dangling off the edge of a cliff, Raiden's fingers digging into crumbling soil, fingernails scrabbling desperately. And something was tugging at him to let go, to fall, and when Raiden did, he reached a place that he had never gone to before, a place that had no rules or regulations, where everything was bent and upside-down, and Raiden found, somehow, that this was what love was supposed to be, and it was not what he had anticipated, it was something he did not know quite how to reconcile, but…

 _Fuck._ Holy fuck.

Raiden reached out and tousled Fenrys's hair experimentally. The Fae growled a bit, a deep purr low in his throat, and arched himself against Raiden. Rai gasped, his hand tightening in Fenrys's hair.

Fenrys cracked open one basalt eye.

It took him a minute.

Both eyes snapped open, and he sat up abruptly. He, too, was stark naked, and Raiden found that he could not look away from the tangled hair that fell around Fenrys's shoulders, the sculpted, scarred planes of his warrior's form.

And while part of Raiden was internally panicking, another part of him whistled and said, _Damn._

Fenrys assessed him, warily.

"So," Raiden said. His voice was scratchy. "It appears I am gay."

Fenrys lifted one eyebrow.

"At least," Raiden amended, "bi. Or something along those lines." He swallowed.

He had spent so many years dancing around his feelings for Syeira, neither of them admitting what they really felt, what they wanted from each other.

To hell with that. Life was brutal and short.

"It also appears," Raiden croaked, "that I'm in love with you."

Fenrys went still.

"Because I am," Raiden said, looking up. "I didn't realize it… before. But I am. I love you." He knotted the blanket beneath him with his fist. "Quite a bit."

After the words left his mouth, he felt unbearably stupid. He was a nobody—a captain of the guard's son, seventeen and inexperienced. Fenrys was… _Fenrys._ A force of nature, handsome and charming and twice what Raiden would ever be.

But then Fenrys leaned in and, with painstaking gentleness, brushed his lips against Raiden's.

"I'm in love with you, too, for the record," Fenrys said. "I have been for… some time."

Raiden's head snapped up. "Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised," said Fenrys wryly. He leaned on his back and drew Raiden closer, curling around him with his arms around Raiden's middle. "You tend to grow on a person."

Raiden turned around so that he was facing Fenrys, the two of them inches away.

He reached out and brushed aside a strand of hair from Fenrys's forehead. "Yeah," he said finally. "Gay. Very."

Fenrys laughed, pinning Raiden beneath him.

"I didn't think I'd ever get to do this," he said, laying a trail of kisses down Raiden's neck, his chest, his stomach.

Raiden inhaled sharply. "I didn't think I'd ever feel like this," he managed. "I didn't… You're quite good."

Fenrys smirked. "I know." His lips had drawn perilously low, and Raiden's world grew blurry as he fell from that cliff, blurring…

The tent of the flap swept open, and Raiden heard Emery say, "FUCK," very loudly.

Both Fenrys and Raiden sprang apart, yanking up blankets in an effort to cover themselves.

Emery had blanched, eyes wide.

"Emery," Fenrys said. "So good to see you."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I have mixed feeling about this," she said.

"Pardon?" Raiden said.

"For one," she said, "the unresolved sexual tension was killing me. On the other hand, I never had the desire to see either of you naked."

"Let me feel death's sweet embrace," Raiden muttered. Fenrys choked.

Emery just shook her head. Her hair changed colors when she did so, moving from muddled gray to honey to sap to dirt brown. "I came to tell you that we're only a day from the forest," she said, "and that if we get a move on, we can probably get there tonight."

Raiden stood, wrapping a blanket around his lower torso. Fenrys frowned.

"Let's get a move on, then," Raiden said.

"Rai," Fenrys protested.

"We've been chasing Maeve for two years," said Raiden. "We're so close. I'm not giving up now." He gave Fenrys a wolfish grin. "Never fear, I'll still be there tonight."

Fenrys's ears pinked, which Raiden, for whatever reason, found incredibly endearing.

"Gods," Emery muttered, and stalked from the tent.

After she had gone, Fenrys stood up, reaching for his trousers. "Rai," he began.

"Yes?"

"There are probably some things we need to talk about," said Fenrys. "About us."

Raiden stopped, midway through buttoning up his shirt. "I know."

"And tonight…" Fenrys said. "Approaching Maeve might not be that simple."

"We can stick to the plan, can't we?" Raiden said. "As soon as we find her, you send out a bolt of your power, notifying Rowan and the rest?"

"I can try," said Fenrys. "But things might get messy with Maeve. She still has jurisdiction over me. And if there's this new monster involved, things might get _very_ messy."

Raiden stilled.

"We're still going," Fenrys said, tugging his arms through his sleeves. "But I want to prepare you."

Raiden crossed the tent in two quick steps. He had to reach up on the edges of his toes to reach Fenrys.

In a quick, feverish, desperate movement, he pressed his lips to Fenrys, searing them.

"We're in this together," he said after they broke apart. "Always."

Fenrys smiled, but there was something sad about it. He slid his thumb over Raiden's cheek.

"I didn't know," he said quietly.

"You didn't know what?"

"That day I first saw you," said Fenrys. "The day you came into those cells. I didn't know what you would do to me."

"Which is what?"

"Destroy me," Fenrys said, nipping at Raiden's lower lip. "Save me."

—

The three of them made their way to the forest, trudging along the road. Every once in awhile, Fenrys would frown, and Raiden knew it was became he had caught Maeve's scent.

These lands were wilder, more untamed than Raiden had ever seen in Adarlan. There, even the Oakwald Forest had been civilized; humanized wilderness. These lands had seldom seen humans, or anything that walked upright. They were tinged with cruelty, and they held no humanity at all.

They cast shadows that stretched for mile, seeping like a brackish creek. Here, the winters were no winters at all: the air was a tepid temperature, neither hot nor cold. The landscape, in turn, was neither bare nor verdant. It was made of browns and faded colors. Like Emery, it shifted, no specific shade, no specific features at all.

The further that Emery led them, the quieter she grew.

It did not take them all day.

About three hours after they set out, they encountered a party on the roads.

Maeve.

Fenrys stiffened. The road was straight and long, if partially obscured by vegetation and weeds and wildflowers that beckoned no bees.

They could all see her—Maeve. Cairn. The rest of her lapdogs, all riding on enormous horses, fierce and untamed, fanged hounds loping beside them.

And a woman set astride a black stag.

No. Woman was not the right word.

Her skin was gray as slate, her eyes solid obsidian pearls. Two ram's horns curled up from her skin, the shade of rough lead.

It. The woman was an _it._

Emery did not hesitate. She began to run.

Not toward them—no. She went straight for the vegetation, taking a sharp right, losing herself among the stalks of grass beating against her legs, and in her plain clothes and her plain hair and her forgettable face, she blended into the landscape altogether.

"Raiden," Fenrys said. His face was strained. "I need you to run."

"No," Raiden said.

"I'm not kidding—"

"Neither am I."

Fenrys whirled on him. " _Raiden_ —"

There was a _thwang_. A _thud_ , a _thwack_.

Fenrys had turned sideways. He did not see Cairn raise his bow, aim, and fire. Not fast enough.

The violet-fletched arrow slid right through Raiden's heart.

—

 **SYEIRA**

Syeira decided to go for a walk.

Kasper had returned after an hour or so, Leta in tow. Vaughan had been in the lavatory, and she had gone up to the roof. A half hour later, Vaughan had followed.

She and Kasper had been left in the kitchen together, ruminating in silence.

She had stumbled across a library in the warehouse by accident. Aelin, clearly, had been a reader. After sliding her fingers along the spines of books, Syeira had selected a few novels and slumped down on the couch, paging through.

That was how Kasper had found her. Sitting back on a chair, reading.

"How's Leta?" Syeira had asked, putting the book in her lap.

"I don't know." Kasper dragged a hand through his hair. "It's hard to tell."

"I've certainly never been able to read her," Syeira said, lips twisting to the side in a half-smile.

"Neither have I, to tell you the truth." He sighed, sitting down. Outside the windows, thunder and lightning streaked across the sky.

"Seems odd, given that she's your twin."

"Leta and I are not… ordinary," Kasper said, stumbling over the word. "I love her, and she loves me, but we don't… we are not the kind of brother and sister that tell each other everything. Maybe, if we had grown up together, we would be, but—"

"But?" Syeira said softly.

"The two of us grew accustomed to our secrets," said Kasper, eyes flicking up to the roof. "She has hers, and I have mine."

"Secrets are dangerous."

"I know," Kasper said. His gaze returned to her. "Nobody knows better than my family the price of secrets."

"I'd think you'd all learned your lesson by now."

"My mother has," Kasper said. "My father has. My sister and I will have to discover it ourselves, I think."

"It's a lethal playing field."

"If it wasn't," Kasper said, "we would never learn our lesson at all."

Syeira stood, marking her page in her book. "On that cheerful, sensible note," she said, "I'm going to take a walk."

Kasper's brow furrowed. "We should probably be getting back to the castle soon."

"I know. But I need a little time to myself first. A little fresh air."

"A walk around the slums?"

"I'll be careful," she said.

He studied her. "Alright."

"I'll be back in an hour," she said, already heading toward the door. "The rain's stopped."

He said something else, but she couldn't make it out. She was already walking down the stairs, through the lower floor of the warehouse, and into the streets.

This was her city. She had walked these lanes and gritty avenues hundreds of times before, by herself and with Raiden.

Rifthold bore the scars of the storm. Wet leaves were clotted in the gutters, rainwater trickling downhill and pooling in cracks and crevices in the pavement. The air still smelled tangy, rich and loamy.

But her city was coming alive again. She didn't know what time it was—had no conception of time as she wove her way through the corners and alleyways, past beggar women dozing on front stoops, street rats making bets and speaking coarsely. This part of town was dirty: it was the gray in-between the light, made for drunks and addicts, the bereft and the lonely, the unbelongers. That was not a word, Syeira thought, _unbelonger,_ but it should have been.

Everybody had felt like an unbelonger at least once in their life.

She let her thoughts wander.

They ran in a continuous loop these days, her thoughts, only ever interspersed by new bits of information. _Dallie, death, healing, Aedion, Lysandra, Kasper, Mother, Father, Kasper, Leta, Vaughan, Kasper._

 _Kasper, Kasper, Kasper._

It was getting harder and harder to ignore what she felt for him. Because she _did_ feel something for him. She had since the first time he had asked her to dance, when he had swept her across the floor and drawn her in with that damned _smile._

But she didn't know if she could do anything with it. After Maeve, she didn't know if he'd ever want to be touched like that again. She couldn't blame him if he didn't.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she never saw them coming.

She took a narrow right around the corner and ran right into a barreled chest.

It was so quick, the movement. Two iron chains were yanked around her middle tightly enough to strangle her, a mockery of a suffocating belt.

Syeira reached for her magic, but it was gone, smothered by the iron. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped down over her lips.

She writhed and kicked, attempting to run, to flee, but coarse hands dragged her up, hauling her up as someone else slid a sheet over her head.

She wasn't carried far—she thrashed, fighting it every step of the way. Her screams were muffled, falling short. She tasted tobacco on the back of the man's clammy palm.

A door was shoved open, and she was carried down a set of steps. Her fingernails raked down skin, screeching down the walls, and she heard curses. Someone slapped her so hard that her head collided with stone, and she momentarily forgot to fight as her world swam before her blackened vision.

She was dumped on the ground, two men holding her arms, and the sheet was wrenched from her head.

A man was standing in front of her.

She did not know him, but he was familiar.

Syeira had been at Morath. She knew the solid black eyes, puddles of crude oil. She knew the collar around this handsome man's neck, this man that might have been lovely, with fair hair and rosebud lips, but was instead cruel.

It was a Valg prince. In Rifthold.

He was holding another collar.

He recoiled momentarily at her eyes, but he took another step closer, coming forward—

Syeira screamed, backing away, fighting it as the man came closer, as the other men held her fast. They were all Valg, all of them. She had stumbled straight into their nest, or maybe they had been tracking her, she didn't know, didn't know—

 _She didn't want this—_

 _She would not—_

She made the mistake of closing her eyes, her defiant screams fading into horrible, terrified sobs.

The Valg prince smiled, lips peeling back, and unlatched the collar.

The men slammed Syeira against the wall, and much as she scrabbled, curling and coiling like a snake, she could not stop the Valg prince from slipping the collar onto her neck.

—

 **A/N: ...Don't hate me? I think this might be the worst cliffhanger I've ever left, lol.**

 **REVIEW THANK-YOU LIST TIME!**

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 **You guys are the BEST! :D**


	23. Chapter 22

**A/N: Chapter 22! I would've had this up sooner, but the weather around my area has literally gone insane, and I've been on two hella strong allergy meds that make me... loopy, I guess? Probably 'just a smidge high' is more accurate, lol. Either way, it doesn't produce the best results when trying to write. I would've stayed home to like not die but high school was like lol nope you've got 3 huge tests this week and I was like lol friendo kindly eff off (who created chemistry? and like why? or logarithms? just like? NO?), which brings us up to speed.**

 ***sighhhhhhhh***

 **ANYWAY, thanks so much to all the reviewers! You guys are the best! I'm sorry about Raiden, and Syeira, and Dallie (damn my apology list is just getting longer and longer... and will get a lot longer than this, too... yikes...). :/**

 **RECAP: To quote _The Ten Things I Hate About You_ (I love that movie literally Kat is ME): "The shit hath hiteth the fan."**

 **To start off, Raiden and Fenrys finally broke the dam of unresolved sexual tension, but on the way to the forest, they ran into Maeve early. Emery had the good sense to dip, but Raiden freaking GOT SHOT by Cairn, so YEAH.**

 **Syeira, on the other hand, went for a walk (do not go for a walk alone in Rifthold while there is a WAR ABOUT TO HAPPEN) and got captured and enslaved by the Valg in one of their iron collar things. Which just CANNOT be good. Remember, too, that Kasper is still having his existential crisis over the whole Syeira-is-my-mate thing.**

 **Vaughan decided that he wanted to fight Erawan for the good of humanity (and also Leta), but Leta is not particularly supportive of this idea. Leta is still having her secret meetings, which just CANNOT/will not end well.**

 **FINALLY, we've got Dallie and her multiple personality disorder/oracle/reincarnation/resurrection thing, and her friendship with Orion like forever ago.**

 **ENJOY!**

* * *

CHAPTER 22

 **KASPER**

Kasper had never felt pain like this before. It was sudden, and swift, and the years of lashes he had endured paled in comparison.

It scalded not the outside of his skin but the inside of it, boiling his blood and scouring his lungs. The pain ripped through him in a rapid, devastating fury, slicing and knifing through his body.

Kasper _screamed._

The world faded into a blur of black seeping into the corners of his vision and vicious, shrieking red. He dragged his fingernails down his face, arching his back and howling.

 _Roar_ or _scream_ was not the right word for it. Not even close.

He shifted a thousand times in a single second, flickering from his Fae form to the asp, back and forth, back and forth. No corporeal form: no. He was nothing—he had been reduced to a placeholder for pain.

Footsteps pounded, a door burst open, and dimly, through the screaming and the blood, or maybe only a red haze, Kasper saw Vaughan run in, white as a sheet.

Consciousness was fleeting. Kasper had thought, with all the scars and losses he had endured, that he had known pain.

He was wrong.

Vaughan was saying something, shouting something. Kasper needed Leta here, now, but she was already gone—he had heard and smelled her leavetaking, and she was gone, gone, _gone._

There was so little time.

Vaughan would have to do.

" _Syeira,"_ Kasper gasped. Somehow, his hand had come to be wrapped around Vaughan's wrist. " _Valg."_

He heard, through the faraway person that was screaming and the blood, Vaughan curse, a stream of profanities that failed to make a dent against the tide of hollering.

And all of a sudden the screaming stopped.

Kasper had been the one screaming, he remembered, and he had stopped.

He had mere seconds, pooled and cupped like broken wings in his palm, because the darkness was taking him.

" _Collar,"_ Kasper wheezed, and then it was not only the screaming that had stopped, but the turning of the world.

—

 **SYEIRA**

Something was wrong.

The Valg were shouting it— _wrong, wrong, all wrong_ —in words that made no sense, growls and guttural shrieks that Syeira should not have understood, but did. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

But still. There were things to be grateful for, even in the moment of pitch-black crude oil that slugged through her veins and came dribbling from her mouth.

Thank gods, Syeira thought, even as she screamed herself hoarse because _gods_ , it _burned_ —

Thank gods it wasn't her father, or her mother, or her brothers or her sisters. Thank _gods_ it wasn't Kas. That she could not have borne.

There was a dragonfly in her mind, one that shone like obsidian, and it spoke in a language Syeira should not have understood but did.

 _Release,_ it hissed, recoiling and forcing forward at once. _Submit._

 _No,_ Syeira thought fiercely, pushing back, even when it was agony. _I will not._

There was a creature in her mind, but this was no peaceful dragonfly, leading a haphazard trail through lily pads and cool pond water. This was something crueler, something wickeder, a beast that would take her mind and destroy it if given the opportunity.

She cried, then, from the pain that was scalding her as she fought, as she took her mother's golden eyes, a gift from the Blackbeaks, and turned them inward, where the demon fighting for control of her body screeched. She wept black tears and retched black blood.

They would use her—to get at the people she loved. She would not let them.

 _I won't let it win,_ she thought. _I will not._

And there, standing above her, was Kas.

He was not real. He was a fever dream, a hallucination. His sides blurred, his hair nothing more than a smudge of light.

But he smiled at her, that heartbreaker's smirk, and said, _Syeira, why are you crying?_

And she could almost feel his thumb swiping across her cheeks. _No more of that,_ he said.

Syeira did not fight for herself. She did not give a damn about whether she lived or died.

But she would not let them turn her into a weapon to be used against the people that she loved. Because she did love, fiercely. She did not love herself, but she burned with the love she had for others.

For her father. For her mother. For Orion and Calynn and Bevyn. For Raiden.

For Kas.

For Kas.

For Kas.

And so she arched her back and screamed, and the guards slapped manacles of iron around her wrists, and wrapped her in chains, and hit her and roared.

And so she made a promise to herself.

 _I will not let it win._

 _I am stronger than this._

 _I will not weep._

 _I will not._

—

 **LETA**

Sometimes Leta wanted to grow wings and let the wind carry her away.

When she came back to her room, another note was waiting for her. _The old quarters of Celaena Sardothien—the tunnels. Find the door knocker that speaks._

Leta pressed her lips together thinly and tossed the note into the fire roaring in the grate. She glared at it. "Don't I have enough to deal with already?" she asked. "Can I have a minute, please?"

The parchment curled and crackled accusingly.

She sighed, sitting down on the edge of her bed and undoing the clasp of her cloak. Across from her, she could see her reflection in the mirror mounted on the wall. She looked worried. She looked… lost.

Leta had thought about running away many times before she'd finally managed it. Her fears had kept her back, again and again. _I will get lost in these woods,_ she'd thought. _I will never find my way out. I will die here._

Finally, she'd realized that if she stayed with Mohana, she would die anyway. Best to take the chance.

Leta stood up suddenly, going over to a trunk. She hadn't unpacked yet—she didn't know if she would. They'd leave soon enough, she suspected.

She reached into her shirt, pulling out a pendant with a key dangling on the end. She withdrew it from around her neck and inserted the key into the lock, turning it until she heard a faint, muted _snick,_ and pushed open the top of the trunk.

The leather jacket was just as she had remembered.

Battered, holey. It had collected dust, sitting in the bottom of the box.

She picked it up gingerly, as if afraid it would evaporate in her hands. She lifted it to her nose.

The scent was fainter now, just a wisp. _Smoke and cloves._ She closed her eyes.

"You weren't supposed to come back," she whispered. "You weren't supposed to make this harder."

In the fire, the piece of paper sent up faint curls of smoke.

A fist thundered at the door.

Hurriedly, Leta dropped the leather coat back into the trunk, snapping it shut and slinging her key around her neck, tucking it into the folds of her tunic. She ran over to the door, pulling it open.

Fifteen-year-old Orion stood outside, white-haired and flinty-eyed. "You need to come with me," he said. "Now."

She creased her forehead. "What? Why?"

"Trust me," Orion said. " _Now."_

The look on his face was all she needed.

"Where?" she asked.

"Throne room," Orion answered, and just like that, the two of them were running, him with the speed of a witch, her with the grace of a Fae, two wicked, dangerous beasts prowling the hallowed halls of a castle that had burned magical creatures to dust and ashes.

When she reached the throne room, Leta was not prepared for the sight that awaited her.

It was chaos.

Aelin and Dorian were in the middle of the room, _screaming_ at each other.

That was the first thing Leta noticed.

" _She is my daughter!"_ Dorian shouted.

" _He is my son!"_ Aelin roared. The two of them were inches away, both of them sparking with magic. Aelin was two seconds away from igniting, and Dorian shone and crackled with ice.

Dorian growled—a low, primal sound, one that Leta was accustomed to hearing from her parents, from her brother, from Aedion and Lysandra, but not from Dorian Havilliard.

Aelin shot out a hand, reaching for his neck, but Dorian rose a hand and she froze, restrained.

A flick of Dorian's wrist, and he sent her flying backwards. Aelin flipped and landed on the balls of her feet, graceful as a cat.

Rowan snarled, stalking forward, only to be intercepted by Manon, who slid in front of him with slitted eyes.

Leta smelled smoke and cloves, pepper and rosemary, and saw Vaughan in the corner, Kasper unconscious by his feet.

The blood drained from her face. " _Kas!"_ she screamed.

The fighting stopped. Heads swiveled to stare at her.

She ran, _sprinted_ , through the throne room. Dorian Havilliard got in her way, but he never got close to her. She shoved him away so hard that he went flying into the stone wall, crashing into the bricks.

"Fuck," Aedion Ashryver said, appearing in the doorway with his wife.

Leta let out a wretched sound—a strangled noise that came from deep in her throat.

Kasper wasn't dead. He was here, he was alive, she could see him breathing—but he was moving, twitching oddly, and—

A hand fell on her shoulder.

Calloused, enormous. Vaughan.

"Love," he said, and in that one word, that one movement, he quelled some of the storm rising within her.

She fell on the floor beside her brother—she could _feel_ the blood draining from her face, waves seeping through her body like tremors. "What happened?" she whispered, frantic. "What—is he alright? Is he—?"

"Something happened," said Vaughan. "One minute he was fine, the next—this." He raked a hand through his hair. It had gotten too long; it needed a haircut. "He said something about Syeira. About the Valg, and a collar…"

"Where is Syeira?" she said, but she feared she already knew the answer.

"I don't know," said Vaughan, shaking his head. "No one does. She went off for a walk, and Kasper just—"

"She's his mate," Leta said hollowly.

The room went very, very still.

"No," Dorian said. "No, wait—"

"Syeira isn't a Fae," Manon said. "That's impossible, that—"

"Kasper is a demi-Fae," said Leta. "Like me. Like Aelin." She dropped her hands. She had a curious sensation; she felt as if all the feeling in her chest was pooling into her belly, seeping onto the floor and puddling. "He can mate with someone that isn't Fae. Just like I suspect Lorcan did with Lady Elide."

Rowan shook his head. "No," he said. "It's impossible. I would have—"

"Kasper has known for two years that Syeira is his mate," Leta snapped. Around the room, faces paled. "You've all been blind, and self-absorbed, and you haven't seen it, but I have. And the reason that he collapsed like this—the reason that he's on the floor, and hurt, and—" Her voice broke. "Somehow, Syeira must've gotten captured. And somehow, they must've put a collar around her neck."

All the windows in the room shattered.

But it wasn't Aelin that did it, or Rowan, or Leta, or even Vaughan. It was Dorian.

He had gone white—like snow, Leta thought detachedly. Like the snow that had fallen in thick blankets in the Cambrians.

Manon put her arms around herself. She looked… afraid. It was the first time Leta had ever seen Manon afraid.

"Please," Dorian rasped. "Please, _no_ —"

There was a scar around the king's neck. Thin, faded. The mark of a collar.

Leta rose from the floor. She felt dizzy, lightheaded, but she shoved away her stupid feelings. "We need to organize a search party. I don't know where the hell Chaol is, but when someone finds him, tell him that he needs to close off all the gates to the city and start combing through the city—the slums in particular. That's where we were. Syeira couldn't have gone far."

"The slums?" Aelin said, speaking up for the first time. She had a hand pressed to her throat. "Why were Syeira and Kas in the slums? What were they _doing_?"

"Taking a walk," Vaughan said, shoulders slumping. "I—they found me at the Pits, this hole-in-the—"

"I know what the Pits is," Aelin interrupted. "And why the hell are you even _here_?"

"Syeira and Kasper found Vaughan and brought him back to your old warehouse," Leta said. "Kasper must've scented it. Vaughan wants to come south with us—to Eyllwe. To fight."

" _Fuck no,"_ Rowan said vehemently. "He needs to get the hell out— _now._ "

"This is a discussion for another time," Leta said, "but you and I both know that he'd be a valuable asset in a battle, and—"

"He's part of Maeve's cadre, for gods' sakes—"

"So were you, once," Leta interrupted. "You were just as much her bitch as Vaughan is, and you should know firsthand that her version of the blood oath is a prison. Don't you dare pretend otherwise."

Silence.

"Kasper is hurt," Leta said rawly. "Syeira is missing. We need to get Kasper to the infirmary and start the search, not stand here arguing about old allegiances and past mistakes. I've had enough of it." She looked at the king of Adarlan. "And for what it's worth, Dorian, Syeira is your daughter. She'll get through this, just like you did."

Dorian raised a hollow gaze to her. Leta set her jaw and nodded.

When she turned around, she saw Vaughan watching her. His features were inscrutable—for once, they were not cheery and charming, but weighted, contemplative.

She didn't want to know what he thought. She didn't particularly care.

She had bigger issues than Vaughan Zamil.

So she picked up her brother and headed for the infirmary, leaving the throne room of shattered, broken glass behind.

—

 **EMERY**

Emery had only two qualities that she prided herself on: her intelligence, and her knack for self-preservation.

So when she saw the troupe of Fae riding down the dusty road to the forest that spat back no survivors, her survival instincts kicked in, and she ran. The grasses in this forgotten, sprawling part of the world were shoulder-high, and her browned skin and hair, colorless face and appearance, would blend into the sun-bleached terrain well enough.

She wanted to keep running. She did. She knew that she should have, but—

Raiden had taken a chance on her. No one had done that before, except for perhaps Emery's half-brother, but her history with her brother was long and complicated. Her brother had been the only person to ever love her, but he had gotten the rest of their family killed.

She got letters from him sometimes, sent in code. _If you ever need me,_ he wrote, _I'll be here._

Emery was smart enough to stay away. She wasn't that desperate—much as she loved her brother, going to him would be a death sentence.

Raiden was a stranger. She barely knew him, or Fenrys. She didn't know their history, or why it was they wanted to find this Maeve person so badly, but…

She halted, hundreds of feet away from the road, and turned back. Slowly.

She parted the grasses around her face and peered over the sea of sifting grains—just in time to see the Fae come to a halt before Raiden and Fenrys.

Fenrys turned to Raiden, said something, and then—

Emery didn't even see who fired the arrow.

She didn't hear the twang.

She was too far—

She only saw the fletched head protruding from Raiden's chest after the fact, and saw him crumple to the ground, his marionette's strings cut short.

Fenrys slammed into the ground, his hand going to his chest, and let out a roar of pain as Emery had never heard— _physical, heartrending pain,_ as if something vital was being ripped away—

The woman at the forefront of the group laughed. Emery could see little, save for a mane of black hair, and a lithe, ancient form. Behind her was the monster.

Emery did not look at that one. She didn't dare.

"Oh, dear," the woman said. "Cairn, what a lovely shot. Pity it had to be wasted on _him_."

There was a flash of light, a rush of wind, and suddenly, ten feet away from where Fenrys had been, a wolf was lunging for Cairn, fangs poised for the Fae's sinewy neck.

Maeve withdrew a knife in a slender, unhurried movement and threw it, plunging the blade into the wolf's shoulder.

The wolf roared, falling to the ground, and Maeve said, "Fenrys, _you will not attack any of my entourage, do you understand_?"

When Emery had been very small, and her brother had come back to their forgotten part of the world, he had taught her the signs of magic—how to tell what was laced with power and what was not, what to hide from and what to fear.

Even if he had not, Emery would have known the kind of sway in Maeve's voice.

"Be still," Maeve said, voice a midnight caress, and the wolf twitched, once, before freezing on the ground.

Maeve slid neatly from the saddle and prowled over to the wolf. She leaned down and plucked the dagger from his back, wiping it on the edge of her tunic. "Shift," she commanded.

Another pulse of light, and then Fenrys was lying face-down on the ground, blood trickling from one of his shoulderblades, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted in pain.

Maeve knelt, her tunic pooling around her, and kissed Fenrys's cheek, tracing the curve of his neck. He hissed, snarling, and said something Emery couldn't make out. A moment later, a _crack_ reverberated through the clearing—Maeve had slapped him.

She rose. "Strap him to one of the horses," Maeve said sharply, hoisting herself back on her horse as two burly Fae dragged Fenrys up, tying him onto a mare with iron chains. They shackled his hands around the mare's neck, smiling grimly.

The monster said nothing.

"Let's go," Maeve said at last. "I want to rid myself of this forsaken place." She snapped the reins, and the Fae rode off with her, Fenrys's horse tied to Connall's mount, bringing Fenrys away.

He was unconscious—blood still seeped from his shoulder steadily, staining the stallion's flank.

Only the monster hesitated.

For the first time, Emery dared to look at it.

Gray skin. Horns. Solid black eyes. A figure that almost—but not quite—resembled a woman, something human.

The monster was looking right back at Emery.

The blood drained from Emery's face.

But the monster didn't attack. Instead, it rose a clawed hand, and out of the underbrush came a deer—no, a buck. Something larger, something that looked like a deer but was not, tinged with old, old magic.

The monster leaned over and whispered something into the buck's ear.

 _Things that seem wrong to you,_ her brother had said. _Those are the things with magic._

The beast looked up, gave Emery what might have been a nod, and pressed its heels to her beats of a mount's sides, gone as quickly as she had been there.

Emery waited one minute. Two. Three. Four.

She crept out from the grasses.

Raiden was on the path. Still, mostly unmoving, yes, but—

Emery let out a breath. The arrow had not gone through his heart. It had gone through his shoulder. And his chest was rising and falling. Just barely, but rising and falling all the same.

She flipped open her satchel, shucking it off her shoulder, and knelt by him in the ground. Hurriedly, she took out her kit, the one her brother had given her so many years ago.

"It won't last forever," he'd warned. "You'll have to replenish it, but I'll show you how."

She spilled out the contents on the ground now with shaking fingers. "Fuck," Emery whispered, her vision blurring with frantic, nervous tears. "Fuck, shit, _fuck._ "

She took a deep breath, digging her fingernails into her eyes. " _Focus,"_ she told herself. "Focus, Emery Owen. _Focus._ "

She did.

She closed her fingers around the arrow. It was a wicked thing, tipped with an iron head, and she gritted her teeth and yanked it out in a smooth, savage movement.

Raiden's breath snagged.

"He is still alive," Emery told herself, rambling in order to keep herself calm. She always spoke to herself in the moments of tragedy; she'd talked to herself constantly in the days after her parents' deaths, after her brother had left, after she'd been left behind to bury her sister. "He is still alive, and you need something to staunch the flow. _Think,_ you idiot, think, for fuck's sake—" Her quavering hands found the bandages and the pot of numbing cream. She flipped off the top and smeared it all over the wound, along with a blood-clotting ointment. "Not the bandage, stitches—this needs stitches, where's the needle, where's the needle—thread, dammit—"

She set her teeth, threaded the needle, and put it his skin. She did a piss-poor job; her brother used to tease her about her shaking fingers. "You try keeping steady hands right now," she hissed, talking to her absent brother as she sewed Raiden up. "Screw you."

 _Good gods, Em, you've gone crazy—_

Frantic tears spilled down her cheeks. "Please don't die," she whispered, grabbing the bandages and wrapping them around his shoulder. Raiden was heavy, and muscled, but she forced herself to lift him as she slung the cloth around his shoulder once, twice—" She paused, forcing herself to breathe. "You are a _failure,_ Emery, and a useless bloody idiot, but for once in your gods-damned life, _do something right._ "

She flipped Raiden onto his back. His face had gone ashy-gray, but he was breathing—too slowly, far too slowly, but he was still alive, there was still time—

She rummaged around in her bag for the other kit, the other vials, and found them.

"There are poisons in here, too," her brother had warned. "Toxic ones, meant to kill."

He'd taught her how to make them, which herbs did what.

She didn't care about the poisons, though, not now. She only cared about the vials meant for healing.

"I'm not a healer," her brother had said, "but in order to know your poisons, you've got to know your peonies."

She took out the tiny blue vial now, uncorking it and putting her arm under Raiden's neck, lifting him up. Carefully, Emery dribbled a bit of the potion into his parted lips—slowly, so as not to choke him.

After she'd drained the contents, Emery grabbed another pale blue bottle and ripped off the cork with her teeth, pouring that down Raiden's throat, too. "You _will not die_ ," she told him, only half-intelligible with sobs. "I have watched too many people die. Please. _Please._ "

Raiden gave no reply, but his face had lost some of the grayish tinge.

Emery didn't know enough. She had only bits and pieces of her brother's own incomplete knowledge, she could not save him, not by herself—

She looked up, and saw the stag-like creature sniffing a patch of wildflowers by the edge of the road.

"Come here," she said, out on a limb.

But the stag looked up. Its fur was russet, spotted and striped with white, and its antlers had the texture of birch wood, flaking and chipping the same.

Before Emery's eyes, the stag trotted forward, as she had asked, and came to her.

"Kneel," said Emery, more out of absurd hope than anything else.

But the stag knelt.

Emery put her fist to her mouth. "Gods-dammit, Em," she told herself, closing her eyes.

She opened them. Now was not the time to have an existential crisis, whatever creepy animals came bounding out of the underbrush.

"I need your help," she told the stag. "Please."

The stag inclined its head.

"Alright," she said. And shoving her things back into her satchel, she tossed her bag around the stag's neck. It didn't protest. The thing was huge, big as a horse one might ride into war.

She grunted, hauling Raiden up, and got him to straddle the stag, one leg on either side of the animal's ribcage.

The stag only blinked at Emery.

She got on after Raiden, looping her arms around Raiden's chest and the stag's neck. "This is never going to work," she told herself, half-delirious with panic. " _Dammit."_

But the stag rose, and though Emery shrieked, she held on.

"Okay," she said, trying, for the life of her, to rationalize the events of the past few hours.

It didn't work. Emery wasn't very good at rationalizing.

"Just—" She flexed and unflexed her fingers. "I need to go to my brother," she said, looking at the stag. "I need you to take me to him. For Raiden's sake, if not for mine."

The stag turned around and studied her for a moment. Its eyes were big and black, unmoving.

But then it gave a slight incline of its head, and she tightened her grip around the stag's neck, around Raiden's waist, and the stag leaped off.

It moved faster than any creature she had ever seen before—moved back the way they had come, but not along the road. Instead, it went deep into the grasses, and ferns and weeds smacked Emery in the face, and she yelped, clinging to the buck for dear life.

The wildlands whizzed by past her, and it occurred to Emery that this was magic, that the deer somehow understood and interpreted, and knew who Emery's brother was, and where he was, and…

It had been the monster that did it. The gray-skinned thing on the road that had waited.

Emery didn't know why, or how, and she didn't want to.

Monsters were a curious thing. It was their human side that made them dangerous.

—

 **CHAOL**

It was night before Chaol found time to break away from the search for Syeira to look for him. And because it was Chaol, he knew where to go.

Everyone else had long since left the throne room—Dorian had, too, but it seemed he'd come back, unguarded, without anyone or anything save for a candle in a handled pewter dish and a bottle of liquor.

Chaol eased in the doors. One of them had been kept ajar, cracked open an inch, and he slipped inside soundlessly.

It had been eighteen years since Dorian had stopped looking the part of a boy king. He'd lost any tinges of the boy that remained inside his scarred, scalded body the moment he'd donned armor and married Manon Blackbeak—the moment he'd had a daughter in a desperate ditch for an heir and marched on Morath.

But he looked like a boy king now. Dorian sat on his throne, shoulders hunched, a bottle of liquor by his feet. He looked broken.

He was weeping.

They'd all had children so young, Chaol thought. Too young. But they'd been the last of their line, discounting Hollin, whom everyone had tacitly agreed probably shouldn't have offspring as a general rule, and death had surrounded them at Morath. They'd wanted someone to carry on after them in the all-too-likely possibility that they wouldn't survive.

Dorian had been twenty-two when Syeira was born. Too young, Chaol thought again, but remembered that he'd been twenty-two when he'd first held Raiden.

 _Raiden._

He'd been a hellish handful of a baby, just as he'd been all his life. He cried endlessly and refused to eat almost everything—even when he'd been in Nesryn's stomach, he'd thrashed and kicked constantly.

But gods, Chaol had loved him. He'd never loved anyone as much as he'd loved his son. He loved Raiden all his life, even when he was a shit father, even when he fucked up, because—

Because Chaol had been young, and all he ever seemed to do was fuck up. Even now.

He sent a silent prayer to whatever gods existed, just as he did every night. _Keep my son safe. Please._

They'd been children, all of them, save for Manon and Rowan. Nesryn had been twenty-two, like Chaol. Aedion had been twenty-eight, which was closer to where it should have been, but Lysandra had been, what, twenty-three?

And Aelin… gods. Aelin had been nineteen, and alone, bound in iron, and Maeve had taken her daughter away from her while Aelin was still on the floor.

They'd grown up because they'd had to. In many ways, Chaol thought that Aelin had been older than any of them, save perhaps for Rowan, when she'd been taken away. But even so.

A memory came to Chaol, half-forgotten, in the hours after Syeira had first been born.

He'd come to give his congratulations to Dorian and Manon and halted in the threshold of their tent, looking inside.

Manon had been asleep, curled up against Dorian, her hair spilling out over the pillow, and Dorian had been holding his daughter with an expression Chaol had never seen on his face.

Wonder. Perfect wonder—worship. And love.

Sixteen years later, Dorian crumpled, and he let out a choked, muffled sob.

Chaol forced himself further into the room, allowing his footfalls to sound.

Dorian lifted his head.

His hair was mussed, his chin coated in stubble. He'd aged decades in hours, eyes red, new lines around his mouth.

"Chaol," he croaked, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eyes. "Has there been any news?"

Chaol shook his head. Dorian had been part of the search party for a long time, but Chaol had told him to go back, to get some rest.

Chaol should have known better.

"I've closed off all the gates of the city," Chaol said. "But there's not much more I can do until morning."

Dorian swallowed. "So that's a no, then."

Chaol nodded. Dorian picked up the liquor bottle, lifting it to his lips, but Chaol strode over and took it in one deft swipe.

"You'll thank me in the morning," Chaol said, taking the lid and screwing it back on.

"Gods-dammit, Chaol, I—"

"You," Chaol said, meeting his best friend's eyes, "are better than _this._ " He shook the bottle, amber liquid sloshing, catching the silver rays of moonlight coming in from the gaping holes in the walls where the windows had once been.

"Fuck you," Dorian said to the floor.

"We'll find her, Dorian."

"Stop it," Dorian snarled. "You don't know—you don't know what it's like, having that thing in your head, what it can do to a person—"

"I saw what it did to you," Chaol said calmly. "And you came back."

"Not the same."

"No," Chaol admitted. "Not the same."

"She's not—" Dorian closed his eyes. He seemed so fragile.

It had been so long since Chaol had seen Dorian Havilliard look fragile. Since Aelin had called herself Celaena at least, a lifetime ago.

"I know your daughter," said Chaol. "I know her, because I am her godfather, and because I watched her grow up for fourteen years right before my eyes. She is many things, Dorian, but she is not weak. She's strong. Stronger than I think you or Manon give her credit for."

Dorian didn't say anything.

"She's got more witch in her than human," Chaol said, "whether she has iron claws and fangs or not. But she's _your_ daughter, Dorian, and she has Manon's eyes—Valg eyes. And that's going to count for something."

"I should've been there," Dorian whispered. "I should have—I should have told her, about Dallie, that it wasn't—"

"I should've told my son that I loved him," Chaol interrupted. "We all have regrets, Dorian. Our lives are crumbling around us. Raiden is in some godsforsaken place thousands of miles away, maybe alive, maybe—" His voice broke. "Maybe not. Dallie was resurrected, and she did not come back the same. Kasper is unconscious in the infirmary."

Dorian put his head in his hands.

"Our children are growing up, Dorian," Chaol said. "People like us aren't children for long anyway."

"She's my daughter," Dorian whispered. "I'm her _father._ This is—this is _my fault,_ it's—"

"It's _not_ ," Chaol snapped. "Dorian. It's _not._ "

Dorian didn't reply.

Chaol exhaled, sitting down at the foot of Dorian's throne. He reached out and took Dorian's hand.

Dorian gripped Chaol's hand tightly—so tight that Chaol thought both their bones would shatter.

"I miss him," Chaol said quietly. "Raiden, I mean. I miss him all the time. Constantly. I miss his stupid shit-eating grin and the way he used to hug Nesryn. I miss his idiotic teenage disaster. I miss his recklessness and his smiles and the way that he was _free_ , in a way that I have and will never be, not because of circumstances, but because of who I am."

Dorian put a hand to his mouth, hitching on a sob.

"I understand," Chaol said, closing his eyes. "I _know._ And there's nothing I can say or do right now to make it better, but I'm here."

Dorian wept, horrible, wracking sobs convulsing, and Chaol stayed there, silent tears streaking down his scarred cheek, and held the hand of the boy king as he cried for his daughter, as Chaol cried for his son.

 _Gods, please, keep him safe. Keep my son safe for me._

 _I love him. Please._

 _And keep Syeira safe, too._

Chaol could add another to his prayers.

—

 **ORION**

Orion dearly needed some fresh air.

The castle was enormous, but all too often Orion felt its walls closing in around him, collapsing around his shoulders, choking him, confining him.

Especially now. He just…

He couldn't, right now. With any of it.

He went to the stables. Not the ones for the horses. The ones for the wyverns.

The night sky was crisp and clear, full of the bright, sharpness that only winter could offer. Orion had been in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, before hurling aside the covers, shucking on his riding leathers. To hell with it, he'd thought, raking a hand through his hair. He needed to _ride._

A few soldiers outside gave Orion curious, probing looks, but they didn't dare to stop him. Orion knew he looked terrifying, and once, it had bothered him, that no one cared to look past his appearance to see what was beneath, but he'd long since stopped mourning that loss.

Orion _was_ lethal. More so now that he'd grown older, fourteen years old, muscles taking shape in his arms, his chest, his legs.

He was almost taller than his father. Manon said that one day, he might even get to be as big as Rowan Galathynius.

He took deep, cleansing breaths of air. The wyvern stables were at the edge of the castle close, far away. The aerie, his mother called it. Fifteen stories high, though only one floor, with vaulted ceilings and pens for the wyverns.

Most of the witch-riders were in the Crochan Kingdom, but a few were kept here. Just a few.

When Orion became king, he'd expand their forces—make an entire branch of the army.

Orion would be a warrior king.

He reached the enormous, vaulted doors and hauled them open with a _bang,_ striding inside with a cold, hard expression.

He stalked across the ground floor to Anifail's cage, his boots clicking on the stone floors, grabbing his leather gloves from his belt and tugging them on with his teeth, iron incisors glinting.

He didn't need to go all the way. He lifted his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

A door burst open, and Anifail came hurtling out. Anifail was one of the rare wyverns that never needed to be locked up; Orion had picked him out as a birthday present when he was seven. He'd raised him from a hatchling, and Anifail was fiercely loyal, obedient to Orion's tongue.

Anifail paid no attention to anyone else, though. Orion liked that about his wyvern.

Orion patted Anifail's neck. "Come on, you beast," Orion said. "I need to get out of this shithole."

And he was about to, until he heard the voice.

"Orion Blackbeak," someone whispered from the corner of the aerie.

Orion whipped his head around. "Who's there?" he called, his claws protruding from the slits in his gloves.

A girl strode out from the shadows.

Orion recognized her immediately.

She was different now, of course. Taller, older, eleven instead of nine. Her hair was longer, a mess of golden tangles, and her eyes were no longer blue-and-gold, but white, like Orion's hair.

She was in a tattered black shift, barefoot. To some, she must've seemed terrifying—a little girl made prophetess, otherworldly and ancient.

Orion only smiled.

"Hello, Dallie, darling," he said, leaning against Anifail. "It's been too long."

Dallie cocked her head. "I am not Dallie. I am Daleka."

He examined his claws. "Is that so," he drawled. "Dallie, dearest, how you've changed."

People said Orion had gotten his father's charm. Orion supposed that was true.

She blinked. Took a step back. She said, "I can't see your strings."

Her voice had changed. It was a subtle thing, but Orion was an expert in subtle things. It was less polished, less smooth—more a little girl's voice.

His eyes narrowed. "Interesting."

Dallie took a step forward. Wyverns shifted uneasily in their stalls. Moonlight filtered in through the windows, landing on Dallie and bathing her in dappled silver, and it occurred to Orion that he had some common ground with this little girl he'd once befriended.

They both looked like monsters now. Maybe they both _were_ monsters. He had been born, Dallie made.

"Orion," Dallie said, walking forward. Further, closer to him.

"Yes, darling?"

"I can't—" Her hand shot out, reaching for him, but Orion sidestepped her.

"I think not," he said, firmly but gently. "I've heard what you can do with those magical fingers of yours, darling."

Dallie's hand dropped.

"I can hear myself again," she whispered. "You're—I can't read you. I can't see your strings. You're—" She swallowed. "My name is _Dallie_ ," she said.

Orion's eyes narrowed. "I know."

"You're different," she said.

"I know that, too."

"No." She shook her head. Her eyes cleared—there was a new sharpness to them, and her voice had lost almost all of its eerie, otherworldly quality. "I—I can read other people. See their auras, their life strings. But I can't read you."

"That's a relief," Orion said, but he was watching Dallie closely.

She was telling the truth. Orion was very, very good at telling lies, and even better at sensing them.

"I can hear myself," Dallie said, her voice breaking. "You—you made the other one go quiet. You made the other one silent."

Orion didn't say anything for a minute.

Then, he extended his arm.

"Go on," he said. "Touch me. Read me, if you can."

Her eyes met his. They were extraordinary. Orion had heard so many people wax poetic about the Ashryver eyes, but he thought that Dallie's new eyes were far more extraordinary.

Orion loved extraordinary things.

She put her hand on his forearm.

"I can't," she said, sounding surprised and—happy. Hopefully, deliriously happy. "I can't. I don't see anything."

Orion's lips tilted upward. "In that case," he said, "how would you like to come for a ride?"

Dallie's brow creased. "You don't want to figure out what this means?"

"My whole family's treated you like a science experiment," Orion replied. "I've found that sometimes, things just can't be explained. Maybe you're one of them." He shrugged. "Maybe you're not. But whatever it is, I suspect it'll be there in the morning. And right now, I want to fly."

Dallie smiled.

She had a lovely smile. It made her look almost human again.

Orion wished he had a smile like that—something that made him fallible and kind.

"I want to fly, too," she said, and he took her hand.

She did not shrink away from his claws.

—

 **LETA**

Leta trudged back from the underground tunnels, her heart aching and heavy.

 _I hate that fucking door-knocker._

So much was going wrong. So much bad, so little good.

She didn't want…

But then again, it didn't matter, did it? She _needed._

And needs always came before wants.

—

 **EMERY**

The stag was fast. Faster than should've been possible.

She didn't know if it was months or years or hours later that the stag brought her to her brother's door.

Emery had never been to her brother's house. Not this one, anyway. But she knew it was his, because it bore the signs of him: the carefully-cultivated herb garden curled up like a striped tabby along the rim of the cottage, the plain door; the stained-glass bottles lining the windowsills.

Her brother had not grown up here, this far east. Emery's father lived far in the west once, and when he was there, he'd met two sisters; a laundress and a serving girl. Her father had fallen in love with the serving girl and had a son.

Then a rage of killing had swept through the land, and her father had fled, thought his son dead, come east and made a new family, had Emery and her sister.

It wasn't until years later that her half-brother tracked down their father. When he did, he brought death.

Still, Emery loved him. Theirs was a long, complicated tale, but she did.

And she needed him. Not for her, but for Raiden.

So she slid off the stag's back, catching Raiden as he fell—his breathing had steadied, but his complexion remained stone-gray—and hobbling over to the door.

She raised a hand and knocked.

It opened a moment later, revealing a face she knew well. Handsome, gray-eyed, black-haired. Chisel-jawed. He was approaching his late thirties now, but she would know him anywhere.

"Hello, Nox," Emery said tiredly. "I need your help."

* * *

 **A/N: NOX OWEN! Also more Dallie and Orion and depressing!Dorian. :D**

 ***warning* I make no promises as to whether Raiden bites it in the end, but he's alive for now. ;P**

 **THANK YOU REVIEW LIST TIME! :D**

 **isabelas**

 **Guest (I know this story has so much angst. Honestly I think it might be because I usually write this as a break in-between doing homework and all my rage from math goes in here? Jk... kind of.)**

 **Guest**

 **BookBabbles (omg literally same)**

 **dwiertella (All your ideas are so good! :D Also, is Dany a Game of Thrones reference? If so, I'm reading the books right now, and ASDFGHJKL I'm just SO UNSTABLE OVER THEM FOR SO MANY REASONS, if not, it's still really pretty :D)**

 **EmpressofAlderley18 (Hints for next chapter... hm... let's go with Nox, Eyllwe (christ that's hard to spell), and more Syeira for now. ;P)**

 **Guest**

 **pomxxx**

 **Shiro is King (x2 YOU JUST MADE MY WATERY POLLEN-FILLED EYES TEAR UP WITH JOY)**

 **silverstargenesis (gray-skinned thing is Big Picture, but its POV will show up later, promise.)**

 **mandyreilly**

 **Nerdgirl2389**

 **kittysniper9 (Lorcan is literally me At All Times)**

 **BooksandCats (I love your profile name omg)**

 **pjo-hp-tog-mi**

 **Dacowluva (x2 AHHH, also: Calynn and Sorrel YES.)**

 **Mintcat Moo (TLC coming as soon as nature stops beating me upside the head with a baseball bat, promise :D)**

 **jmdaily13 (x11 OMG AHHHHHH tysm for real)**

 **Guest**

 **1uv2r3ad4life**

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 **You guys are AMAZING! Next chapter hopefully coming sometime next week!**


	24. Chapter 23

**A/N: I'm still alive, I swear!**

 **There's no real good excuse for having this chapter take so long, other than I was having a Crisis, and by the time I was done with my Crisis, I got slammed with writer's block, and THEN I got slammed with finals. Summer is here now, though (HALLELUJAH!), and I'm going to make my updates regular now: at LEAST once a week, maybe twice, depending on the tattered state of the rest of my life. **

**So: chapter 23, and also the last chapter of Part III, which was initially supposed to be the last part, but, well, I lied. (At this point, is anyone surprised?) This is more of a transition chapter than anything else, though it has a few nice twist-y things. I'm hoping to get the next chapter up by next weekend AT LATEST, maybe sooner. (We're starting to get into the actual war part of this story, which means, you know, death and dying and blood. Whoop-whoop!)**

 **Thank you SO MUCH for all the reviewers and people who've stuck with me so far. You guys mean the world. :D**

 **RECAP: Raiden, Fenrys, and Emery were riding out to find Maeve, but they found her a little early. Cairn shot Raiden, Maeve took Fenrys away, and Emery took a dying Raiden to her brother, Nox, who apparently is living QUITE far away from Erilea.**

 **Meanwhile, Syeira was captured by the Valg and possessed by one of their demons, though she's doing her damndest to fight it. Kasper fell ill, due to his mate-bond thing with Syeira, which sent the rest of the royals into a panic as they realized, thanks to Leta, that Kasper and Syeira are, in fact, mates.**

 **Vaughan is back in the picture, after being rescued (?) from the Pits, and he's asking to fight with Aelin & Co. Surprisingly enough, despite her initial reluctance, Leta is fighting for him to fight.**

 **Dallie is still recovering from her whole I-died-and-now-I'm-creepy-af, and Orion, for whatever reason, seems to clear her vision, letting her return to herself.**

 **ENJOY! :P**

* * *

CHAPTER 23

 **EMERY**

The last time Emery had seen Nox, their sister's dead body had been lying on the stones between them.

Nox was a climber, Emery thought. He surmounted, defied the odds. He spat in the face of destiny and fate and the forces that had kept him apart from a family he was never meant to be a part of, and it was not until Rosalie lay bleeding that Nox discovered the barrier he would never cross.

"Em?" Nox breathed.

Too late, Emery realized that she might have just lugged another dead body to stack on the growing pile between them, on top of their mother's coffin, their father's ashes; Rosalie's lovely, matted golden hair.

Nox's gaze fell on Raiden, slumped and unconscious against Emery's shoulder, and he swore, jumping out the door and hauling Raiden into his arms. He didn't say anything else—the quiet, disbelieving expression was wiped clean, replaced by panic and the need to find, fix, bandage.

"Fuck," Nox swore, hurrying inside. Emery followed, hair tumbling around her cheeks in wayward strands of caramel. "What the _hell_ happened to him?"

She had never been to this cottage, never seen it before, but it brayed Nox from the rafters. Tiny, cozy, cabinets and shelves and windowsills dusted with labeled jars and bottles littered the creaky floorboards, handfuls of dried herbs dangling from the ceiling. Some she knew, remembered from Nox's lessons all those years ago; hellebore and sage and crushed belladonna flowers, and some she had never seen in her life.

It smelled like her childhood—like afternoons spent picking wildflowers out in the fields with Rosalie, like nights spent hiding from her father's fists in Nox's closet, like Nox swirling his hands over a pot bubbling over a fire, jotting down notes in a leatherbound book.

Nox set Raiden down on a sagging couch, inspecting the bandage. "Well?" Nox snapped, and Emery realized she hadn't answered his question.

"He was shot," she said hollowly. "An—arrow."

 _And I wasn't there,_ she thought. _I was in the grasses, hiding like the coward I am—because that is all I do, hide and hide and hide while the blood pours down._

Nox cursed, peeling back the bandage, probing the tissue beneath. "How long ago?"

"I don't—I don't know."

He looked up at that. "Em," he said. _"Em."_

Breaths were snagging in her chest, pooling and knotting like twine—she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, oily slickness easing into the corners of her visions—

And then Nox was there, his hand gripping her chin. "Emery. Look at me."

She did.

"I need your help if I'm going to save him," Nox said. "The tip of the arrow was poisoned—I don't know with what, not yet, but if you don't want that infection to spread, I'm going to need you to focus, and I'm going to need you to breathe. Do you understand?"

 _Keep quiet, Emmie. Don't make a sound._

And for a moment, Nox's face changed, and it was not him, but Rosalie that stood there—

Emery shoved down the memories, the recollections, and dug her nails into her wrists so hard that she felt blood on her fingertips, damp and warm.

"I don't know how long," she croaked hoarsely. "I really don't."

Nox set his jaw, his arms falling to his sides. He strode back over to Raiden. "Go get the bowl and the water pitcher in the kitchen," he commanded, and Emery did, clinging to something—anything—to do, to focus on.

She came back, setting a ceramic bowl on the coffee table, water sloshing over the rim. Nox yanked a rag out of a drawer and pressed it flat over Raiden's chest, dabbing it around the wound. "His skin is gray," he said. "I don't know how the fuck he survived—he was a lucky bastard."

"I don't think luck had anything to do with it," she said, remembering the way Fenrys had fallen to his knees—had screamed, endless and unyielding pain.

"Anybody that survives a shot like this is lucky," Nox said. "There's a sewing box on top of the cabinet—get it for me, now."

She scurried over, picking up a polished walnut box and handing it to Nox. He opened it, multiple compartments snapping out, each with tiny vials no bigger than her thumb. He grabbed a malachite-colored tube, snapping off the top with his teeth, and poured it over the wound.

The skin hissed and bubbled and burned, and Raiden's body twitched, but he didn't stir.

"The damage is bad," Nox said, digging inside the sewing box for a stack of bandages and a needle and thread. "Thank gods he's unconscious, or this'd be hell. Did you do these stitches?"

"Yes."

"Not bad," he commented, glancing at her.

"Is he going to live?" Emery asked, hugging her arms to her chest.

"I don't know," Nox answered. The skin continued to bubble, and Emery wondered what the hell had been in the bottle as Nox poured water over top, the simmering turning to steam. "The fact that he's survived this far is commendable, but the damage done to his arm—" Nox's lips flattened. "It's infected, at least a little."

Her heart stopped, but Nox kept on talking. "The poultice should keep most of the infection from spreading," he said, biting off a piece of surgical thread with his incisors. "At least to the left side of his body. I don't know if I'll be able to save his arm, if he lives at all."

Her blood went cold. Raiden was a warrior. What would he do—who would he be—if he didn't have two arms to swing a sword, to draw and notch a bow and arrow?

Raiden was a wild thing, and wild things rarely survived with missing parts.

"Gods," she whispered, grinding the heels of her palms into her eyes. _"Gods."_

Nox glanced out the window. "What is that thing?" he said, staring at the buck-stag hybrid with tufted, spotted fur. "And what were you doing on it? Emery, who _is_ this?" He pointed down to Raiden's limp body, lips colorless as snow.

"Raiden Westfall," she said tiredly.

Nox froze. Lifted his hands. "What?"

"Son of Chaol Westfall," she said. "And Nesryn Faliq."

Nox shoved a trembling hand through his hair. "What is he doing this far east?"

"Looking for someone." Emery's tone had gone oddly flat; empty. "A Fae queen called Maeve."

"Bullshit," Nox swore. "She's just a myth."

"No, she's not," Emery said, thinking back to the woman on the path, the one that had slapped Fenrys's cheek so hard that the _smack_ had echoed for miles. "I saw her myself."

Nox's jaw lowered.

"I don't know why they were looking for her," Emery said. "Just that they had a score to settle."

"They?"

"There was a Fae—Fenrys," she said. Swallowed. "He was in love with Raiden, I think. Maeve took him."

Nox threaded the needle with shaking, tremoring fingers. "How—what—"

"We need to get word to Erilea, Nox," Emery said. "To Adarlan."

"No."

The word was so final, to brutal, that it stalled her tongue—but only for a moment.

"I don't think the old king is still ruling," Emery said. "It's—different there, now. I heard Fenrys and Raiden say something about Queen Aelin in the north—"

"That's impossible," said Nox flatly. "Aelin Galathynius died decades ago."

"I don't think she did," Emery said, racking her brains for the bits and pieces Fenrys and Raiden had left scattered, like breadcrumbs brushed along a trail; the tidbits of information they'd let slip through their fingers unintentionally, scrabbled up by Emery's eager ears. "I think she's alive, Nox. I think—I think that might've been part of their score to settle."

"Maeve didn't kill Aelin," Nox said, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he teased the old stitches out of Raiden's skin. "The old king of Adarlan did."

"But what if Maeve had something to do with it?"

"We aren't contacting Erilea," Nox said. "End of story."

"You know Chaol Westfall," Emery said. "Or used to, at least. This is his _son._ You don't want to tell him—to help him?"

"Enough," Nox said, slamming his needle down. "You weren't there, Emery. You don't know what Erilea was like—what it's still like today, despite what you may think. You weren't there to see the fires, or the burnings, or feel the day that magic left. Chaol Westfall was an arrogant son of a bitch, and I owe him nothing. I will help his son for _you_ —and then we're finished. I made a promise ten years ago that I have no intention of forgetting."

Emery's hands fell.

"I'm going to Erilea," she said, forcing steel into her voice. It didn't work—her words trembled, aching for ferocity that she could not give. "Whether you're coming with me or not."

"Enjoy your existence as a solitary traveler then, Em," Nox said, pressing down a bandage hard on Raiden's chest. "Because I don't think he's going to live."

"He will."

Nox slid an incredulous glance her way.

"I've come all this way," Emery said. "I will not watch him fall."

Nox was quiet for a moment. Quiet, and still. A stray breeze rustled the fistfuls of herbs pinned over the window, and a few flowers fell on Raiden's lovely russet hair.

"It's not always your choice," Nox said lowly. "No one has that kind of control."

"He is not another Rosalie," she said, and Nox flinched. "Tell me what to do."

Nox was rigid, still, carved from marble and stone and all the things that did not feel.

"Get me some fresh water," he rasped.

She did.

—

 **SYEIRA**

The creature poked and prodded the parts of her that were the weakest.

It stripped bare the memories of her father, her mother, replaying in vivid detail uncertain crowns and inadequacies, beds grown too cold in the morning without someone to lay beside her.

It was in a bed that it had all begun—that day that her father had found Raiden curled up against her form, his breath fogging and misting on her skin.

The creature dissected her recollections of Morath, replaying the screaming and the blood heard from dawn to dusk until Syeira was the one screaming.

She'd watched so many people die—mothers, fathers, little boys and little girls. She used to whisper prayers for them as she fell asleep, murmuring broken pleas into her pillow as the clang of swords rang out through the mountains.

When she was four years old, she'd been afraid to face the battlefields. Her father was set to address his troops when numbers and morale were sinking precipitously low, and she'd been afraid to see the blood and the gaping wounds, the dying and the dead, the ghosts that hovered over the shoulders of the living like smoke that never cleared, blurring and blurring until dreaming and waking were synonymous creatures.

Her mother had found her cowering in a hallway, hands over her head, rocking back and forth and trembling.

"This," her mother had said, "is unacceptable."

Syeira had peered up, tears perched on her cheeks.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

"I don't care," her mother replied. "You are going to be a queen one day—you are a princess now. You do not get the luxury of fear."

Syeira whimpered, but her mother grabbed her wrist and hauled her to her feet.

"Listen to me," her mother said. "You will stand by your father's side—by my side—and look at the people who are fighting and dying for _you._ Do you understand? They are fighting so that we may earn our right to rule. Do not give them cause to regret their choice."

Her breath snagged.

"Their deaths are on your shoulders, Syeira Blackbeak," her mother said. Of all Syeira's surnames, that was the one most unused, a forgotten cluster of letters before _Crochan-Havilliard._ "It is the price to pay for freedom."

 _Their deaths are on your shoulders._

Syeira was four years old, and she'd followed her mother out—stood by her father's side and looked in the face of the hollow-eyed men who were fighting for her parents' sakes.

Later, she discovered that they were fighting for a land free of demons, for a land with magic, for a land unsalted from the crosshatches the old king of Adarlan had dug so long ago. But back then, she had felt each death keenly. _For me, for me, for me._

She used to spend hours as a little girl wandering the rows of the wounded. She'd press her palm to men that were dying, staring up at the ceiling without sight, without sound. She could do nothing to help them—she hadn't known, then, of the gifts that lay dormant in her blood.

She once spent a whole night curled up by a dying man's side. His name was Jack, and he was sixteen years old, with a crop of strawberry blond curls turned brown by blood.

He'd been cut, and the cut had grown infected, and he'd been told that he was going to die.

Syeira held his hand while the priestess performed the rites, called upon the old gods. She listened to Jack babble, in his fever-induced delirium, about the family he had back home: his mother, his father, who'd died in the war before him some years ago; his little sister, Maisie. He was here for Maisie, he explained. He was never worth much, but Maisie was worth everything.

In the morning, one of the healers shook Syeira awake. She had fallen asleep with her head on Jack's chest, and he was dead.

Her father found her like that—sleeping on a dead man, tears damp and sodden on her cheeks, because she had listened to his story until his breaths grew too rattling and weak to tell it, and when he had whispered, "Tell me something, princess," she had talked and talked and talked through the night, filling up empty hours, empty minutes, empty space, with stories.

She'd never forget the look on her father's face—sorrow and grief and guilt and beneath it all, a tired, worn pride.

She'd forgotten that she'd been worth something, once. It wasn't until they left Morath that Syeira found herself plagued by the demons that never left. She was not sweet, and kind, and gentle.

She was never given the chance to be those things. Kasper had his scars written into his skin: she had hers scalded into her soul, where they were picked apart by the demon in her mind.

After she left Morath, there were no dead people left to tell tales to. Syeira discovered quickly that she had a handful of magic, a pretty face, a crown she did not deserve, and nothing else.

The nightmares and the memories had made her raw, sanded her down, made her rough and broken and useless.

 _Weak,_ the monster whispered. _Weakness._

And it was.

Her mother had not been broken by her demons. Neither had her father. Leta, Rowan, Aelin, Aedion, Lysandra, Elide: they had all survived their pasts. _Kasper_ had survived the years of slavery, of watching his mother beaten as punishment, of being beaten in front of his mother, just so Maeve could hear her scream.

 _Pathetic,_ the monster hissed. _Deplorable._

But though it loved to take apart her memories of Morath, it loved to pick at Kasper most of all.

The Valg seemed to sense, somehow, that this was where it hurt the most.

The monster replayed her memories of the golden-haired boy with the heart-stopping smile, again and again and again, until Syeira knew nothing but weeping.

The night that Kasper had danced with her, at Aelin's coronation ball—his hands on her waist, his mischievous grin, his breath hot on her ear.

The day she had seen him again, coming back not to Rifthold but to Orynth—his biting words, his forgiveness and acceptance. He never seemed bothered by her sharp tongue, perhaps because he could match her word-for-word.

That morning on the boat, when he had told her the secrets that cut the deepest, and they had fallen asleep together—because he had trusted her, she realized now. After making himself so vulnerable, so raw, this boy that could not bear to share his scars, he had let himself fall asleep curled around her.

She had inhaled the scent of pepper and rosemary, and despite the fact that Syeira hated the ocean, it had felt like home.

When had Kas become home?

There was a patch of soft, downy, golden hair curling down the back of Kasper's tanned, browned neck. She wanted to rake her fingers through it, wanted to scratch her nails up and down the sensitive skin.

She wanted to hear him laugh—wanted to see him smile.

Kas had the loveliest smile.

 _You will never see him again,_ the Valg hissed in her ear. _He is gone. You are weak—you will submit._

 _I will not,_ Syeira said, through the screams and the tears.

She was conscious, dimly, that her body was being thrown in the back of a caravan—that the buildings around her were not the stone and brick of Rifthold, but the trees of Oakwald.

She would not let the Valg win.

She would die fighting before she let them take her body and use it for their own twisted purposes. And they would, she knew. She'd heard enough, seen enough, of what had been done at Morath. They would lay her down on a table, do horrible things to her, have the demon inside eat her up, devour her, and then they would send her body back to her father, broken and wasted and burned.

She turned her golden irises back inside her head and curled her fists. If they sent him a body, so be it. Better a body than a slave.

She hoped Kasper knew—

Knew that he had been the one, against all odds, to give her the strength to fight this last battle.

—

 **DALLIE**

Dallie had never flown before, and she found that it was the most wonderful sensation: soaring high above the world, skimming stars with her fingertips.

She'd never had enough sense to be afraid. She was fearless—to a fault.

It was what had gotten her killed.

Her mind was clearer than it had been in weeks, almost sharp—Orion's doing. Something about him was different. He swept away the veneer of mist, and for the first time since she had been dragged up from that river of darkness, she could breathe, and her tongue and touches were her own.

She had come back from the dead, but she had not come back alone.

There was something else inside of her, and it was not a tangible demon that could be exorcised. It was her new curses; the piece of her that saw the tangled, webbed strings netting people together—the thick wire that bound her parents, the unbreakable cord between Aelin and Rowan, pulsing with a faint, otherworldly light; the silvery thread that wound around Dorian's throat and Manon's slender wrist.

The fragile string that curled behind Leta's ear, knotted around Vaughan's ankle.

The ability to see auras, to predict the future in a brush of skin, had fundamentally altered her. It took away the things that made her human.

And without the smoke and clouds licking up the column of her spine—

She was her own. She was not bound to whatever oracle slumbered inside of her.

Anifail's wings thumped beneath her, a steady, leathery beat. Orion hadn't said a word since he'd helped her on the wyvern's back, steadying her with a hand on her elbow.

"They'll be looking for us at the palace," Dallie said, her words swallowed by cold, winter air.

"No, they won't," said Orion. "They're looking for my sister. They won't notice we're gone until morning at least."

Dallie didn't respond. She knotted her fingers through Anifail's reins.

"Sleep," Orion said, pressing his heel to the wyvern's flank. Anifail banked left, and they swooped low, brushing against the belly of the ground. "You look exhausted."

"I'm not tired."

"The hell you aren't," said Orion, though without any real bite.

She leaned back against him. He smelled like rain and steel, sharp enough to burn the inside of her nose. It was oddly soothing, that acrid scent: it grounded her, anchored her to her perch atop the wyvern's back.

"Aren't you curious?" she said.

"About what?"

"Why you make things—quiet."

She felt Orion shrug behind her, his shoulders rustling against the tattered fabric of her gown, her tangled strands of hair. "Not particularly."

 _"_ _Why?"_

He huffed a laugh, almost amused—but not quite. "You know," he said, tugging on the reins, "when I was little, my parents enlisted about two dozen scholars to figure out why I'd been born the way I was—a male witch, iron teeth and iron claws, and my father's magic to match. It didn't make sense. I was an anomaly, an aberration."

She twisted around. "You're not an aberration."

His liquid irises were hooded. "I am."

"No, you're not," she said. "Just because you're not the same as everyone else doesn't make you bad."

Orion blinked once, twice. "Well," he said after a moment, voice oddly hoarse. "Be that as it may, the rest of the populace don't quite feel the same. The scholars proposed about a hundred different theories—my parents' magic fusing together, my father's magic strong enough to overcome the minimal iron deposits. Poetic shit, really."

She laughed, just a little. Orion's mouth twitched.

"The rest of the world doesn't need a reason to call you a monster," he said. "And you don't need absolution for the _why_ s and the _how_ s. All that matters is what _is._ The world could give a thousand different reasons for your resurrection, Dallie, and people are still going to view you as a ghost."

She flinched—recoiled.

"I won't lie," he said flatly. "I have no use in reasons for the eccentricities of nature. I have no use for things out of my control. You can choose to see what the world has given you as a curse—or you can see it as a strength." He looked straight ahead, jaw hard and set. "I've done both."

 _A strength._ "Easy for you to say," she snapped. "You don't lose control of your body when you use _your_ gifts."

He slid a cool gaze to her, one snowy brow cocked. "Don't I?"

"I know what you're doing," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Channon does the same thing when he's trying to annoy me, rattling off those stupid rhetorical questions that have no meaning."

His thin lips curled up. "Don't they?"

She folded her arms. "I will shove you off this wyvern."

"No, you won't," he said. "You'd fall without me."

Dallie glared at him.

He just smiled quietly. "Turn around," he said. "Get some sleep. I won't let you plummet to your death, darling, I promise."

"Death doesn't scare me," she said. "I already know what's on the other side."

Orion stilled behind her. "Do you."

She looked down at her hands. "Yes." She looked over her shoulder. "Do you want to know?"

He paused. "No."

"No?"

"It won't change anything, will it?" he said. "People spend too much time contemplating death—they use up their life worrying about it. I don't need more incentive. Death will come for me when it comes for me, barring Syeira and her magic hands."

"You're awfully philosophical."

"That's what happens when the world decides to lay its shit on you from day one," he said. "You learn to make your weaknesses your weapons, and fuck the rest."

Dallie contemplated this. "Weaknesses as weapons."

"No one's stopping you but yourself."

She exhaled, closing her eyes. "Maybe I _should've_ gone to sleep."

She sensed rather than saw Orion smile. "Sweet dreams, darling," he said. "Don't worry. If you fall, I'll be there to catch you."

And the oddest thing was, she believed him.

—

 **ROWAN**

Rowan hated sickrooms. They were too close, too confined, too cramped. Rowan was a big person—broad shoulders, towering well over six feet. He consumed space, devoured it, by simply crossing his arms; leaning against the doorjamb.

Kas sprawled back on the bed. He was unconscious—skin ashen, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Rowan didn't know how long he would have to watch his son struggle to breathe, claw for air, but he knew that when Kasper woke, it would be worse.

He'd left the infirmary in the middle of the night to get some fresh air, fill his lungs with something clear and crisp, untainted.

He found himself on the roof.

The sky was bright and cold above him, stars standing out like pinprick thumbprints on the backdrop of smattered ink. He sucked in a sharp breath, then another, then another, until the world stopped spinning.

Aelin was still down in the infirmary, curled up in a chair. Rowan had spread a blanket out over her legs before he left, pressing a kiss to her brow.

Somewhere down below, someone was playing an accordion—high, haunting, lovely notes, melancholy and drifting. He'd never heard an accordion before coming to Erilea; instruments in Wendlyn and the eastern countries were older: lutes and flutes and reedpipes; sitars and guqins on the rare occasions he made himself that far southeastern.

Rowan had the sudden, painful urge to hear his mate play the piano.

He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair and wishing he'd bought a bottle of liquor, when he spotted his daughter on the edge of the roof.

She was sitting with her legs dangling off the side of the stone, peering at the cobblestones below. There _was_ a bottle of amber liquid at her side, and she notched it through her fingers, lifting it to her lips in a smooth, practiced movement.

She was staring out into space, her gaze eerily empty, watching the lights of the city and the stars.

Rowan exhaled, striding over and sitting beside her.

She didn't stir, but the wind was blowing in her direction, ruffling the strands of her silver hair. She'd probably smelled him the second he'd stepped out onto the roof.

It was strange, sometimes, to see so much of himself in her. Disquieting, to say the least. She had his face—his hair. She had his mother's physique, willowy and thin, though he didn't know if it was the result of years of starvation growing up—he tried not to dwell on it; the thought made him itch to freeze the whole world over—or genetics.

It was more than the physical traits. She, like Rowan, was a subtle thing. She didn't burn brightly and violently, like Kas and Aelin. Rowan had never been at the forefront of the cadre. He accepted his reputation without much thought; it was irrelevant. He served his purpose. As did she.

Her trust was a rare, precious thing, her commands rarely exercised but always effective. She spoke only when she had something to say, and she hid most of her real thoughts away, tucked them into a clever box she had constructed on her own years or months or weeks or days before he had found her—or, Rowan thought, she had found him.

Leta had only three things from Aelin: a pair of Ashryver eyes, a fire that consumed, and too many secrets.

"You," Rowan said, "should not be drinking on the edge of the roof."

She didn't look at him. "I have wings."

"Not in this form, you don't."

She took another swig from the bottle. It was an odd image to reconcile with his daughter. "Even drunk," she said, "I can shift into a gods-damned bird." She flicked her gaze to him. "As can you."

He took the liquor from her, though not to confiscate it: he took a lengthy swill. The alcohol lit a fire as it sluiced down his throat, burning and scalding. "Strong," he commented, glancing sideways at her.

"No point in going halfway."

He laughed a bit. "Any burgeoning alcoholic tendencies I should know about?"

She leaned back on her hands. "Only on special occasions."

"Hm." A crisp winter wind ruffled the tufts of Rowan's hair.

"I'm—" Leta paused, words sticking in her throat. "I'm sorry. About what I said earlier, in the throne room—about Maeve."

Something clenched in Rowan's gut. "You weren't wrong," he said quietly. "I—forget, sometimes, what it was like to have so little freedom. I've been so used to dictating other people's liberties for the past two decades that I often don't remember what it's like to be in the opposite position."

Leta nodded, skimming her fingers along the scars on her wrists. Rowan's vision went white for a moment.

"There's things," she said, "you don't know about—about Vaughan and I."

His jaw clenched, and he took the bottle of liquor back, downing a few swallows.

"He never wanted to touch me," Leta said. At Rowan's incredulous glare, she amended, "Or, well, he _wanted_ to, but he wouldn't. Not after that night."

His hands clenched around the bottle's neck. "What night?"

"Lorcan was the one that found me," Leta said, as if she hadn't heard him. "I was running away from Mohana. He saved me from some prick that had me shoved up against the wall."

Rowan didn't say anything. It was rare that Leta spoke about her past—even when Aelin had first found her, Leta had been reluctant, words and stories pried from her tongue, not given freely.

"Lorcan wanted to go back to Mohana," she said. "I think he suspected who I was—kind of hard not to, what with the resemblance." She gestured from her face to his. "I agreed, on the condition that he teach me how to use my gifts. When we got back to the cabin, Mohana was dead—nailed to a piece of wood. The whole clearing had been burned down. And Maeve was waiting."

Rowan knew all this, of course, but he listened anyway.

"I used my powers—took too much, too fast, after being terrified of myself for so long." She took a deep breath, and Rowan started a bit at the true piece of new honesty; the admission of being afraid of herself.

People weren't typically afraid of their own souls unless someone gave them reason to be.

Four things. She had four things in common with Aelin, now.

"When I woke up," she said, "Lorcan was gone. Vaughan was there. I didn't know him, didn't trust him. Maeve had dropped tantalizing bits and pieces of information about my parents." Rowan jolted at this, too—her eyes had gone to a faraway place, no longer sitting on the rooftop beside him.

She swept her wrist over her cheeks. "I didn't care," she said hoarsely. "I was—a monster. An abnormality. I had been beaten within an inch of my life for fifteen years, knocked to the ground and told I was worth nothing, time and time again. Lorcan had left me—and I didn't know why, not really. All of a sudden, here was Vaughan, telling me that I was royalty, making a deal to take me through Wendlyn, and Terrasen if I wanted to go further." A horrible, ragged laugh emerged from her chest. "He was such a fucking liar, even back then. But he saved my life."

Leta looked up at Rowan then, her eyes swimming with tears. "I thought my parents abandoned me," she said. "For so long. I thought I wasn't wanted."

Rowan's breath snagged in his throat. "Fuck," he said. "Leta, no—"

"I know," she said, but tears were spilling down her cheeks, fast and quick. "I know now. But I didn't back then."

He couldn't breathe.

"He made me a deal," she said. "Vaughan. He told me that he'd take me as far as Varese. If I wanted to, I could go on to Terrasen—if he convinced me that I was royalty." She smiled, a humorless, brittle thing. "I wanted to open up a cart in the capital. I'd always like the idea of being a flower girl—selling daisies and peonies on the side of the road."

The noise that came out of Rowan just then wasn't human—not even close.

It was strangled, raw, and completely unraveled.

"I've always liked flowers," Leta said, hair tumbling over her cheeks. "Blooming is the first sign of death, you know."

And that was when Rowan realized.

That was who Leta reminded him of—Lyria. She reminded him of Lyria.

"It was just the two of us in those mountains," Leta whispered. "Just Vaughan and I. We fought, and bickered, and—" Her throat hitched. "He made me think that I might be worth something. For the first time in my life, he made me feel like I might be worth a damn. He saved my life, taught me how to shift. At night, we traded secrets and thoughts."

"What kind of thoughts?" Rowan rasped.

"The kind of thoughts that stay between us," she said. "His secrets are not mine to share, and the secrets I gave his are not mine anymore, either—they are his." She tipped her chin up to look at the stars, the Stag of Orynth webbing across the sky. "Can you imagine what it's like, to feel like the only two people in the world? To have no one and nothing, and suddenly someone appears and holds your hand, and requires nothing from you, takes nothing from you—only wants to help?"

And Rowan was reminded, then, of nights spent in the Cambrians with Aelin. Of hours, moments, seconds spent with her as they learned each other's topography, navigating through ranges and plateaus and forests both physical and metaphorical.

"The night that I first felt Kas's power," she said, "we were in a little town on the fringe of the mountains. We'd rented rooms in an inn. He had the one across from me." She took the bottle for herself, hand shaking. "I woke up in the middle of the night and went to him for comfort, and—I kissed him. Or he kissed me. I don't know which. What I know is that I woke up in his bed that morning, and for once in my life, my fingers didn't ache for a knife under my pillow. I felt safe.

"And he told me that it wasn't a good idea, anything between us. I was so, so young, and I'd never met anyone but him. He didn't want to kiss me, to touch me, but he was _there_ —something solid, an anchor. I woke up in the mornings with my head on his chest, his hand in my hair. And—" She cut herself off, abruptly, wiping her hand across her cheeks almost angrily.

"He was such a fucking liar," she said. "He lied, and lied, and lied. And when he was done lying, he thought he could still pick up the pieces—didn't realize, somehow, that what he had done to me was so fundamentally _wrong_ that—" She held the bottle so tightly that the top shattered, and though Rowan flinched, she didn't even seem to notice the glass shards sinking into her palm.

"He told me he loved me," Leta said. "In Erilea. And call me naïve, call me stupid, but I believe him."

Rowan didn't say anything.

"I helped him escape that night," said Leta. "I gave him some money and a cloak and told him to go. I didn't want revenge. I didn't want absolution. I just wanted—I wanted to figure out who I was. Not as the unwanted orphan in the Cambrians, but as—as a princess. Someone worth something."

"You've always been worth something."

She pulled her knees up to her chest. "There are intricacies—complexities—in my relationship with Vaughan that you will never understand," she said, starting straight ahead, that glass still shining in her skin. "Just like there are parts about your relationship with Mom that I will never comprehend."

"I'm not going to absolve him on that basis."

"I'm not asking you to."

He hissed out through his teeth. "What do you want me to say, Leta?"

"I want," she said, "you to take whatever biases you've formed because of his relationship with me, and set them aside. Vaughan is a weapon in this war—a valuable one. I've fought alongside him. Against him, too." She looked down at the stones. "You were blood-sworn for decades. You know that what I'm saying is true."

Rowan's daughter looked at him, and there was something in the set of her mouth, the reflection in her eyes, that made his chest seize.

"Use him," she said. "Let him fight. But for gods' sakes, Rowan, you were Maeve's second-in-command for centuries. Don't let your misconceptions win out over reason."

 _Rowan._ Not—Dad.

"Give me your hand," he said.

She outstretched her palm with the glass, and with careful touches, he picked out the shards, the jagged ends.

"Lyria," Rowan said, clearing his throat as he brushed away a few twinkling bits.

"Who?"

"That," he said, "was the name of the female I thought was my mate. The one that—that would have had my first child." He paused. "She was a flower girl when I met her."

Leta's shoulders sagged. "I'm—I'm sorry," she said. "That you had to endure that. Losing her."

"Losing a mate," Rowan said, "is the kind of thing that cripples a Fae. Forever."

She went rigid. "Surely you can recuperate."

"No. Not really. Not in the ways that matter." He brushed the last of the glass from her hand and let it drop. "There is no coming back from it."

"There has to be."

He leaned back a bit, slitting his eyes at her tone. "How did you know that Kasper and Syeira were mates?"

"Because I paid attention," she snapped. "That night at the dance, at Aelin's coronation ball—he knew then. I'm sure of it. I saw the way he looked at her."

"That's impossible," Rowan said. "He didn't even know her."

"Nothing is impossible," she said. "And everything is improbable." She stood, but she did not wobble. Her words were edged, consonants sharp and pronounced. "Give Vaughan a shot to fight. You need him."

And without another word, she shifted and flew away, leaving Rowan behind with the stars, memories of flowers, and a pool of spilled alcohol.

—

 **AELIN**

Aelin met Manon in the throne room, where the queen stood among a gallery of broken windows and shattered glass.

Manon had her back to Aelin, staring out the windows, at the city below. Morning was dawning on the horizon—the sky was tinged with snow, pale streaks of cornflower.

"Any news?" Aelin asked.

"No."

Her mouth thinned. "Where's Dorian?"

"With Chaol."

Aelin leaned against the wall. "There's no change in Kas's condition. Thank you for asking, by the way."

Manon gave no indication that she heard Aelin. The Crochan queen's back was rigid, her hair smooth and straight as a sheet of pounded metal. "Is there a reason you asked to meet?"

Aelin detached herself from the wall, walking to Manon's side. "War is here."

"Brilliant observation," Manon bit off. She was still the same polished, graceful queen, but there was something new in the set of her shoulders—in the crushed-violet thumbprints around her eyes, the colorlessness of her lips. _Grief._

 _We are kindred spirits, the witch queen and I,_ Aelin realized.

"Erawan isn't going after us, Manon," Aelin said. "He's going after our children."

Manon stiffened.

"Someone needs to go to Eyllwe," she said, "to convene with Haneul. Someone needs to go to Wendlyn to negotiate with Galan. Someone needs to go west, to notify Ansel and the assassins. It's only a matter of time until we meet on the battlefield."

"I cannot leave this city," Manon said, voice low. "I _will not_ leave my daughter."

"And I will not leave my son," Aelin said. "But the fact remains, then, that _someone_ must go, if not us."

Silence hung in the air between them, thick and pervasive.

"Gavriel and Lorcan are watching over Terrasen," Aelin continued. "Asterin is presiding over the Crochan Kingdom."

"And will remain there," Manon snapped.

"Hold your fucking horses." Aelin set her jaw, glaring at Manon. "I wasn't suggesting otherwise. I want to send Aedion and Lysandra to Wendlyn—Aedion has Ashryver blood; he'll stand a better chance of succeeding, especially if people still remember his mother fondly." She kicked the stone floor. "They'll take Channon. I want you to send Bevyn with them."

"Not Daleka?" Manon said, turning to Aelin for the first time.

"No. She stays here. She needs the library, and the scholars—travel is too risky, given her precarious… condition."

Manon nodded, eyes cold. "Why send Bevyn?"

"Because I'm trying to evacuate the younger children," said Aelin. "They have targets painted on their backs, and the further they are away from Erilea, the better."

"Leta encountered ilken in the Cambrians," Manon pointed out.

"But she wasn't hanged in front of an audience."

Manon hissed through her teeth. "There is that." She ran a thumb over her hair. "Send Leta to Eyllwe."

Aelin blinked. "Why?"

"Because she knows how to bargain," said Manon. "And she's smart. She'll know the signs of Erawan if she sees them."

"And who do I send with her?" Aelin said, stomach clenching at the thought of letting her daughter go, alone, to play emissary—

"Vaughan."

 _"_ _Absolutely not."_

"You have to do something with him," Manon said. "And Leta is the only one, so far as I can see, that holds his leash. Or what he's got left of it, anyway."

"I'm not letting him anywhere near—"

"Leta is not a child," Manon snapped. "And there are precious few people that could guard her better. She can make her own decisions. And, frankly, having Vaughan look the way he does toward her—it's a very good incentive for him to protect and serve, isn't it?"

Aelin scowled. "I don't like it."

"You and Rowan don't seem to realize that your children are old enough to make their own decisions," said Manon.

"The same could be said for you and Dorian."

"I know," Manon said. "It is—easier said than done."

Aelin scoffed.

"Ask Leta," Manon said. "If she wants Vaughan or someone else."

"Fine," Aelin bit off.

"As far as my other children go—" Manon hesitated. "I'll send Sorrel west, to Briarcliff and the Red Desert. Callie can go with her." She closed her eyes. "Orion must stay. He's heir to the throne."

"Pieces are moving across the board," Aelin murmured.

"We can only hope," Manon said, "that Erawan does not counter too harshly."

For once, Aelin thought that she and the witch queen were in agreement.

—

 **RAIDEN**

He dreamt of his mother.

They were in the caves of Morath together, and she was teaching him how to shoot.

He was five.

He fumbled with the little bow, his fingers clumsy, inexperienced. _I'm not doing it right,_ he complained.

His mother smiled, coming beside him, kneeling by his feet. _Here,_ she said. _Like this. One hand to aim—the other to shoot._

Raiden furrowed his brow. _One to aim,_ he repeated. _One to shoot._

He nocked an arrow and let it fly.

It didn't go far, and it was still off-target, but it still flew.

 _There,_ his mother said. _A start._

—

Raiden woke with a pounding in his head and a thick, cottony taste on his tongue.

He was sprawled out on a leather couch, a blanket tossed over his shoulders. On the table beside him was a stack of bloodied bandages, a bowl of murky water, and various pots and bottles of poultices and elixirs, some bubbling and hissing.

Raiden was in a small country cottage—windows cluttered with apothecary vials, fistfuls of herbs dangling from exposed rafters in the ceiling. It was midday, but candles were burning everywhere, thick beeswax and head-muddling rosemary, clouding the air with pervasive smoke.

Something felt—wrong.

But it wasn't the cottage.

Raiden couldn't breathe. There was a fist pounding down on his sternum, on his throat, choking and—

"Fenrys?" he croaked.

There came no reply.

A cold, hard stone settled in his gut.

Memories flooded back—Fenrys's mouth on his, rough and chapped, Raiden's own hands sliding down Fenrys's torso, tracing the inked tattoos, sighing against Fenrys's mouth—

He wanted—

Needed—

"Fen?" he rasped again.

And then he realized that the gaping, empty sensation came not only from his chest, but from his side.

More memories. Fenrys's eyes, lazy and hazy with the sun, lips twitching with a smile—

And pain—pain, and someone screaming—

More pain, this time in his chest—

Someone patching him up with trembling hands that were not Fenrys's at all, muttering under her breath, and then fur against his cheek, and wind rustling through his hair…

Raiden looked down.

Two legs. Two feet, ten toes.

One arm. One hand, five fingers.

One of his arms was—gone.

"Fenrys?" Raiden croaked, panicked now, desperate.

But there was no sound save for the faint whisper of the breeze rustling through the curtains.

 _One hand to aim—the other to shoot._

Raiden wondered which one he'd lost.

"Fenrys?" he whispered—one last time.

And there was such silence in his head, in the world, that Raiden only folded in on himself, miles from home and the ones he loved, countries away from the palace where he had grown up with a golden-eyed princess and a tight-mouthed father, centuries and decades away from peace.

He wondered if he still had a home. If, perhaps, Fenrys had _become_ his home.

Raiden had fallen with his Fenrys's voice ringing in his ears, his arm throbbing with vicious, unending pain.

He woke with the absence of both.

* * *

 **A/N: Still not totally satisfied with this chapter, but it gets things where they need to go. Oh, well. :/ Next chapter will be fraught with peril, never fear.**

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	25. Part 4: Chapter 24

**A/N: I FINALLY sat down and outlined this whole thing, because while outlining doesn't usually work for me, clearly not outlining was not working, either. So, for anyone interested in technical details like updates, length, etc: read on. For those who just want the recap and the chapter, read that. For those that just want the chapter, read that, too. Idk. I always ramble so much during these A/Ns that I feel the need to Warn when I'm particularly lacking pithiness.**

 **Length-wise, the story is going to have ~40 chapters, with one of them being an epilogue, and two more parts, because I lied (SHOCKER) when I said Part III was The End. It's not. 40 chapters sounds like a whole hell of a lot, considering we're only on chapter 24, until you realize that the battle chapters are going to be like 4k, and then it's really not that much. I'm pledging right now that I'm going to do updates every Wednesday and Sunday, because my goal is to get this cranked out before _Tower of Dawn_ when it's still technically canon (ANYONE ELSE PUMPED FOR CHAOL? Hopefully he's not as whiny as he was in QoS bc I will fight if so lol). So. That's that, I guess? REGULAR UPDATE SCHEDULE THAT FORCES ME TO GET MY SHIT TOGETHER! *pumps fist***

 **RECAP: Raiden is now an amputee, hunkering down in Nox's cottage after the catastrophe of his encounter with Maeve. Nox and Emery are brother and sister, and for some reason were not on speaking terms before Emery showed up with a half-dead body, which probably has something to do with their dead sister. Fenrys is in Maeve's clutches.**

 **Syeira is possessed by one of the Valg; Kasper is unconscious. It was recently revealed that Dallie goes "quiet" around Orion, which means she can't see the future or any of that terrifying nonsense when he's present.**

 **Calynn is being sent to the Crochan Kingdom with Sorrel. Leta is being sent to Eyllwe with Vaughan. Lysandra and Aedion are being sent to Wendlyn with Bevyn and Channon.**

 **Lorcan, Gavriel, and Elide were sent to watch over Orynth in Aelin and Rowan's absence. There's something going on between Gavriel and a newly-widowed Evangeline.**

 **As always, thanks oodles to all reviewers! You guys are the best! *hugs***

* * *

Part IV

 **Ring Around the Rosie**

 **(Pockets Full of Posies)**

CHAPTER 24

 **RAIDEN**

Raiden's father used to say that his son had too much spirit, too much spunk, too much fire. "You're volatile," his father had said. "A match is made to light a candle. You're made to burn the whole roof down."

"We're in a castle," Raiden had pointed out. "The roof is made out of stone. Not exactly flammable."

His father had glared. "That," he said, "is not my point."

Despite Raiden's smart-ass attitude, he'd understood. His father liked straightforward things: rules and strictures, a _yes_ or _no._ He did not comprehend white lies, or gray half-truths. He could not reconcile moral ambiguity and the moments when the rules bent.

Or perhaps he did understand those things—had been forced to, when the curtain had been drawn back on the old king, revealing him for a demon-possessed husk; when the fire-breathing bitch queen rose from the dead in an assassin's cowl. Perhaps his father simply preferred a world where that gray did not exist. Black and white, right and wrong, left and right, up and down: these were the things Chaol Westfall knew.

And Raiden envied his father, always had, for Chaol's self-assurance. Chaol never seemed to doubt anything, least of all himself, and Raiden was a festering brown at the core of a wilted apple.

The lines had long since blurred for Raiden. They'd begun to smear the moment he'd stepped into the Crochan heir's bed the first time. Now, he was no longer sure the lines existed at all.

His father had once faulted him for too much fight, too much life.

He would be happy now, Raiden thought.

There was nothing left inside of him at all, save for two holes. One in place of his arm, and one where Fenrys had been.

—

Raiden stared down at the mug of tea, watching the steam billow and curl, unfurling and crumpling and furling again.

"Raiden?" Emery said tentatively. She was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, her hair pulled back with a kerchief.

Her brother—Nox—leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He was wiry and elegant, soot-colored hair pulled back with a leather cord, closeted eyes like pounded heather ground beneath a pestle. His expression was carefully blank.

Nox looked like the sort of person that would be good at cards, and that, more than anything, made Raiden distrust him. Well, that, and the various deadly substances scattered over the countertops of his kitchen.

"Raiden," Emery said again. "Did you—"

"I heard you," said Raiden. His voice lacked any inflection: it was hollow, empty. Scraped clean. "I suppose I should thank you for the tea."

Nox had been the one to find Raiden, curled up on the couch and staring out into space. He'd dragged Raiden into the kitchen, where Emery was, stirring something in a pot dangling over the fire. "Sit," Nox had said, gesturing toward a table.

Raiden had eased himself into a seat as Emery stared at him, paling, and mumbled a hasty introduction— _Raiden, this is my brother, Nox; Nox, this is Raiden_ —and turned back to the pot, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around the handle, easing the kettle onto the counter.

"Fenrys," Raiden had said, his first words. "Where is he?"

Emery flinched, recoiling perceptibly. She would've spilled the pot's contents had Nox not caught her elbow. "Rai—"

"Maeve took him," Nox said shortly.

Side-by-side, Raiden could see the family resemblance between Nox and his sister. They both had the same sort of bone structure; wide mouths and elegant, almost aristocratic, cheekbones. It was their coloring that varied: Emery was browned, from her skin to her dishwater hair to her murky eyes, and Nox was shaded in monochrome; blacks, whites, grays.

Thinking about this helped, if only for a moment, to distract from the silence in Raiden's head.

 _Maeve._

He'd known, of course—known the moment that Fen hadn't come running when Rai had called his name. He'd known the moment that Fenrys wasn't there when Raiden woke up, because Fen would have never left his side, not when Rai was injured.

But that word, that affirmation, somehow broke something inside of him anyway. He felt numb and yet exquisitely fragile, as if there were an empty birdcage made of glass notched to a rib inside his chest, swinging where his heart should be.

Tea. The contents of the pot had been tea. Painkilling tea, Raiden surmised, glancing around the atypical kitchen. It was halfway between an apothecary and a poisoner's cabinet: in place of sundry cookware were bottles and jars of odd, mysterious things—butterflies' wings, the crooked legs of ants, ravens' beaks; catfishes' whiskers. In place of cinnamon and sugar were arcane herbs that Raiden had never seen before in his life; buds of flowers like scattered raindrops and vivid, bright blue grass that smelled overpoweringly of cat piss.

Now, Raiden found himself looking down at his tea again, watching the steam ebb and swirl.

"What do you want from me?" Raiden said at last.

"A thank-you for saving your life would be a start," Nox said, slightly edged.

Raiden rose his gaze to meet a wall of unbreaking gray.

Emery had run—she'd _run._ And Raiden couldn't fault her for it, not really. What could she have possibly done? More like than not, she'd have been taken away to be used like chattel among Maeve's entourage, either as a slave or something worse.

But at the same time, he could not find it within himself to thank her. Not when he woke up with a missing arm and a broken heart, and she had run away.

"Nox," Emery said. "He doesn't have to."

"The hell he doesn't," said Nox. "You would be _dead_ right now if not for us. You realize that, right?"

Raiden looked back at Emery. "What," he repeated, "do you want from me?"

"Maeve took Fenrys," she said, even as Nox glared at them both. "Don't you want to get him back?"

"Of course I do," Raiden snapped. "But what are we supposed to do about it?"

Emery didn't answer for a moment. Instead, she traced a water ring on the table's surface. Then, she said, "Raiden, what kind of vengeance were you and Fenrys seeking against Maeve? Why did you go _looking_ for her?"

"We didn't want to take her on," he said. "We just wanted to find her."

"But _why_?" Emery prompted. "I've been quiet before, but—" She took in a deep, shuddering breath. "When I was little, I saw my sister die right in front of me." Across the room, Nox flinched so violently that his head collided with the cabinets. "I almost saw someone else die when Maeve came riding out from those woods. And—I want to know why. What you got me into."

"You ran," Raiden pointed out. "I'm sure that you could've turned your back on the bloody scene."

Emery closed her eyes, a shudder wracking her body. "You're right," she said, and though he was sure she tried to keep her voice steady, it quavered anyway. "I did run. But I came back—for you. I did what I could."

"And here I am," said Raiden. "With Fen—" He choked on the name, the single syllable scorching the back of his throat like liquid fire.

"You're alive," Nox interrupted. "And you wouldn't be, if she'd stayed in the crossfire. If she hadn't come back."

"Please, Rai," Emery said. "I need to know."

Raiden curled his hand into a fist. He could _feel_ his missing arm, somehow: the ache of the void, the kiss of a phantom limb.

"Fenrys and I," he said, "went to avenge Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and her son, Kasper Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius."

"Impossible," Nox said, cursing as he detached himself from the wall. Afternoon shafts of sunlight caught his hair, glinting off the black. "Aelin Galathynius died in Terrasen decades ago."

"No," said Raiden. "She didn't. She survived—managed to escape. Lived hidden for years, and finally came back to reclaim her throne." He narrowed his eyes, studying Nox. "It's unusual for people to have knowledge of Erilea's politics this far east, however outdated."

"Nox is from Erilea," Emery said, ignoring her brother's scowl. "He was born there."

Raiden lifted his brows. "How long has it been since you were last in my lovely homeland, then?"

"Two decades," Nox answered, glowering at Emery. "Somewhere around there."

Raiden exhaled. "A lot's happened since then." He rubbed his forehead and looked at Emery. "There's a story I need to tell you. Not all of it's pretty," he warned. "And I can't promise that it'll satisfy your need for answers."

"Is it the truth?" she said. "All of it?"

Raiden nodded.

"Then go on," she said. "I want to hear it."

—

 **LETA**

They made the camp in silence, Leta pitching bedrolls, Vaughan gathering tree boughs for a fire, creating a niche for themselves in the plains of Fenharrow.

They could've stopped in Bellhaven, Leta supposed; could've rented a room at an inn in the city that reeked of fish. But neither of them wanted to draw attention to their journey south, and they weren't exactly inconspicuous, what with Leta's wraithlike appearance and Vaughan's warrior's build.

She supposed that they also could've gone west, seeking the cover of the southern stretch of the Oakwald Forest. But that stretch was west of Morath, and neither of them felt up to braving the ghosts that stretched between those peaks.

She curled up on her bedroll, propping her chin on her knees. Vaughan struck two pieces of flint together in silence, the kindling flickering with a bruised, golden-red flame.

Neither of them had spoken much since they'd set off from Rifthold that morning, about two or three days after Syeira had been kidnapped. Leta still didn't know why she'd agreed to Vaughan as her escort—she'd almost fallen out of her chair when her mother had suggested it.

Then again, Leta had almost fallen out of her chair when her mother had suggested that she go to Eyllwe in the first place. Leta hadn't wanted to go—she'd never been to Eyllwe before; never been anywhere in Erilea save for Terrasen and now Adarlan. Something in her ached viciously at the thought of leaving Kas's side when all that was keeping him alive was the draughts healers eased down his throat.

But that was what princesses did, Leta supposed. They swallowed their grief for the greater good.

"I need you to talk to Haneul," her mother had said. "Find out if his reports have any credence. We're running out of time."

Leta had nodded, if barely. _Yes. Fine. Sure._

But still, she'd said, incredulously, "You want me to take _Vaughan_?"

"I think he'll protect you," her mother said, swiping a hand across her features. Aelin looked exhausted, worn and thin. "Manon said that he'd lay down his life for you, and whatever my other opinions on him, I'm inclined to agree."

That—well, that—

That had been true once, Leta thought. She wasn't sure if it still was.

Now, gazing at the newborn fire as Vaughan shucked off his boots, sitting down on his own bedroll, she still didn't know what she'd been thinking. She'd agreed to come to Eyllwe because it was her duty; fine. But she had no idea why she'd come with Vaughan.

 _Weak,_ she thought. _Stupid, stupid girl._

On the other side of the fire, Vaughan said, "What are you thinking about?"

She jumped, a bit startled. The firelight turned his skin a burnished gold, shadows playing out over his stubbled jaw. "I was thinking," she said, "about the last time we were in this situation. Just the two of us and a campfire."

"Campfires," he said, "tend to give us lapses in judgment, I think." He tilted up his head to the sky. "Looks like it's going to rain. That should help."

She smiled a bit. "It'll snow—it's wintertime." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe it's just the camp setting in general. Though you did manage to get to the Pits in an opium haze all on your own."

He winced. "Low blow."

"Sorry."

Some of the tension diffused around them, easing back into a comfortable, familiar rhythm.

Vaughan stretched out on his back, and Leta followed suit. The night sky was clear above them, and crisp with winter. Spring was coming soon: shoots were poking up through the soil, thawed and uncovered. But for now, the air still held the promise of a chill.

"Do you still look up at the stars?" said Vaughan quietly.

 _Dangerous territory,_ she told herself.

"Sometimes," she answered, because she was idiotic. "Not the same way, though." She paused. "I miss it, sometimes. It's strange, but I do."

"Miss what?"

"Not Mohana," she clarified. "Or that stupid cabin. But—being alone, in those woods, in those mountains. I hate cities."

"Hate them?"

"Not _hate_ , maybe," she allowed. "They're lovely for short periods of time, don't get me wrong. But—I don't know. Something in me's meant for wildness. Mountains. Forests that haven't been planted and groomed. Winter wastes and gravel sheets."

Vaughan let out a breath. "Minya used to say that I was made for where the world ends."

Leta laughed, just a little. "I thought I was at the world's end," she said. "At that cabin."

"Maybe that was the world's end," he said. "For you, I mean."

She raked a hand through her hair. "Yeah. Maybe."

"Thank you," he said. "For—defending me. In the throne room, in front of everyone."

"None of it was untrue," she said. "And—you deserved it. I shouldn't have sent you away. The night of my mother's coronation ball, I mean."

"I fucked up. It was understandable."

"That doesn't mean it was the right thing to do," she said. A lump formed in her throat. "I missed you. All the time. Constantly. Kas was there, and Aelin, and Rowan, but—" She trailed off. "I missed you as a _friend._ "

There was nothing, for a moment, save for the whisper and hiss of the fire.

"I missed you as a friend, too," he said lowly. "I don't think I've ever had—friends, like that. The cadre don't count. We were all cold bastards, even your father. He might've been the coldest of us all."

"Dad?" she said, alarmed. "He's not cold. Not _that_ cold, anyway."

"Maybe not _now_ ," Vaughan said with a huff. "But trust me. It was some kind of magic Aelin worked on him, to get him to thaw enough to laugh or crack a grin."

She smiled a little. "I've heard stories."

"Leta," Vaughan said. "I want you to know, that whatever I do—whatever happens, with Erawan in general or your family or just between us—I'll always be your friend. Always."

Something stung in her eyes. "Yeah?"

"Of course," said Vaughan. She looked at him through the fire, and found him looking right back, something uncharacteristically soft in his gaze; the set of his mouth. "Get some sleep, love."

Leta closed her eyes, and ignored the part of her that wanted badly, with a force that shook her bones, to lay down beside him and let him carry her through the night.

—

 **LYSANDRA**

Lysandra woke in Aedion's arms, her husband pressed against her back.

She fluttered her eyes. These rooms in Rifthold were familiar: they'd been Aedion's quarters just after the old king fell, when Aelin was comatose and Rowan was wearing a hole in the stone floors of her chambers.

She looked at the diamond-paned windows, at the shafts of warm sunlight filtering in, and wished, more than anything, that she was still asleep.

Lysandra had thought she'd known grief. Her father had abandoned her; her mother had thrown her out of the house and spit on her crumpled form in the street. She'd been groomed as a little girl for whoring, fucked so many times that she'd stopped feeling like a living being, like anything but a commodity, purchased and used up and left weeping.

And then someone had loved her, despite it all— _Wes, Wes, Wes_ —and he'd died. Gone downriver, never to return.

But it was not until she held her daughter's broken body in her hands that she'd fully comprehended grief.

Dallie had always been a colicky baby. Red-faced, yowling. Channon had been the quiet one, though he'd learned to shift before he learned to walk, and given Lysandra a heart attack when she found a kitten curled up in her son's cradle. But Dallie had been brimming with laughter and smiles all her life, burning so brightly that Lysandra had to fight the urge to shade her eyes.

Dallie, Lysandra was beginning to understand, was gone. And she had not been allowed to find peace.

She shouldn't hate Syeira for it. She shouldn't look at the people scrambling for her return and curl her lip.

Yet Lysandra could not help but feel if Dallie had been strung up, little and lovely and laughing, she should at least be allowed to find solace—to be put to rest.

A door creaked.

Lysandra propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring Aedion's muffled noise of displeasure. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulder, the strap of her nightgown slipping down her arm.

"Lys?" Aedion mumbled. "What is it?"

Standing in the doorway to their bedroom, chewing an apple with a bored expression, was Orion Crochan-Havilliard.

"Ever heard of knocking?" Lysandra asked, arching a slender brow.

"Shockingly enough, yes," Orion replied, strolling over and flouncing himself down on one of the plush armchairs. "I just choose not to. So predictable."

Gods almighty. He was a miniature rendition of teenaged Dorian.

Lysandra rubbed her forehead. "Is there a reason that you're here?"

"Other than catching a glimpse of the appallingly lovely sight of you in your underclothes?" Orion said.

Lysandra wasn't sure, but she thought she heard Aedion growl.

"You'd better watch your mouth," she said, more amused than anything else. "Or my husband will kick your ass from here to Antica."

"I hear it's rather sunny there this time of year," Orion said, yawning. "Be my guest."

At that, Aedion finally sat up, shirtless and displeased, hair sticking up in a mess of cowlicks. " _What,"_ he said, " _do you want?"_

"Funny," Orion said. "That's not usually how most dignitaries choose to speak to me."

"That's because I know your father," said Aedion, jabbing a finger in Orion's direction. "And, unfortunately, your mother."

Something dangerously sharp entered Orion's eye. "Careful."

"Get to the point, princeling," Lysandra said, lounging back.

"It's about your daughter," said Orion.

At that, both Aedion and Lysandra jolted, eyes flying wide.

"She's fine," said Orion. "Before you have a heart attack. Better than fine, actually." He paused, examining the glint of his iron claws. "As it turns out, my presence has something of an… effect on her."

"What kind of effect?" Aedion snarled through clenched teeth.

"One that makes her _Dallie_ ," said Orion. "And not _Daleka._ "

Lysandra trembled. Shook so violently that Aedion wrapped his arms around her shoulders, strong and stable and _there_ , and even Orion appeared a bit apologetic, eyes flickering with some unreadable emotion.

"Take me to her," she said.

—

 **CALYNN**

Calynn loved the quiet of the mornings. Silence could be the loudest sound in the world—it stripped away reason and logic, and the thoughts that threatened to break her. It made the racket in her head slip into blissful stillness.

Three days since Syeira had been kidnapped, two since Manon had told Callie to follow Sorrel to the Crochan Kingdom. Orion would stay; Bev would accompany Aedion and Lysandra to Wendlyn.

But Callie, for all her magical shortcomings, wasn't stupid, and she understood her mother's true purpose: tying up loose ends, shoving the extra children—extra heirs—out of harm's way.

Callie couldn't find it in herself to be angry with her mother. Callie was too consumed by guilt and grief.

Calynn had spent her entire life trying to make up for her lack of magic, her lack of _fire_. She strove to sharpen her mind, to accentuate her striking appearance; to be so kind and so charming that people could not help but like her.

But Callie… She didn't mourn Syeira.

The first thought—the instinctual thought—that Callie had when she'd first heard her sister was missing had been, _Does this mean I'm the heir now?_

And when she had her answer— _not yet_ —she felt only disappointment.

Callie was not a kind person. She was not intrinsically _good_ : she acted kind and sweet to serve her own purposes. After all, people trapped more flies with honey than with vinegar.

The morning of her departure dawned cold and brisk and gray, and Callie could only think that she deserved to be sent away.

She found Sorrel saddling two wyverns in the aerie, tightening straps and adjusting leather. Both of them were bundled in thick furs—they'd be flying westward alone through the Frozen Wastes. Callie tugged on the hem of her fur-lined sleeve, watching Sorrel fiddle with silver buckles.

"Morning," Sorrel said, without turning around.

Callie blinked. She hadn't thought Sorrel had noticed her entrance. "Morning."

Sorrel swiveled halfway, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. Her hair was braided into a thick coil, piled high on top of her head. "This one's yours," she said, jerking her head at a green-scaled wyvern, slightly smaller than the russet one by Sorrel's elbow.

Callie came forward, reaching out and scratching the wyvern's chin. "Boy or girl?"

"Girl," Sorrel said. "Her name is Hadain."

"Hello, Hadain," Callie said. The wyvern simply peered at her, eyes curiously blank. Callie filed that information away for later.

Sorrel continued to adjust the saddles. "Have you ever traveled by the Frozen Wastes before?"

Callie shook her head. "No. Usually we go through the Ferian Gap and head southwest—we snake up the coast."

"That's why," Sorrel muttered, almost to herself. "Well. The south is a bit… precarious at present."

"I figured." Callie let her hand drop from Hadain's cheek. "Have you ever gone through the Frozen Wastes?"

"I was born there," said Sorrel. "For a long time, that's all I ever knew." She gave Callie a wry, almost pitying, smile. "It was the same way for your mother."

Callie blinked. "Oh."

"It's a cold place," said Sorrel, swinging her leg up over her wyvern, "and brutal. That's why the matrons favored the the Wastes—it bred calculating warriors. Not unlike the sort you've got in the Staghorns, up north in Terrasen."

Callie hopped up onto Hadain's back. "Like Leta?"

Sorrel paused, considering this. "No," she said finally. "Not like Leta."

"How so?"

"The Cambrians are a different beast than the Wastes," Sorrel answered. "And Leta's made of different material than the rest of us—her own family included." Sorrel closed her hands over the reins, and Callie followed suit. "But make no mistake, Callie—being born and raised in a place of cold and quiet breaks something fundamental in all of us. It's just a matter of what."

Sorrel snapped her reins, and her wyvern rose. Callie did likewise, turning Sorrel's words over in her mouth.

She thought of all the people she had known that had been tempered by suffering—her father, with his necklace of scars that never quite faded; her mother, so cruel and cunning at first glance; Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, whipped and torn to shreds before being hastily sketched together again; and Rowan Whitethorn, who'd suffered losing a mate and children not once but twice.

There was Aedion, who'd been beaten by the knowledge that he'd failed the only person that had ever mattered to him; and Lysandra, who'd been sold like a piece of meat. Chaol, who'd lost his son perhaps indefinitely; and Nesryn, who seemed so quiet after Raiden had gone.

Lorcan Salvaterre, wrecked by horrors Callie couldn't even imagine; and Elide Lochan, who'd been abused in more ways than one by her uncle, the man that was supposed to be _family._ Ansel, ripped apart by a child that would never draw breath; and Sorrel, because Callie, if nothing else, could recognize suffering when she saw it.

Leta, who'd been raised alone, who'd only known claws sinking into her skin for fourteen years. Kasper, who'd been whipped in front of his mother just so Maeve could hear Aelin scream. Syeira, Callie had to admit, who'd grown up in a sea of blood and broken bodies.

Suffering, Callie thought, was so very common. Ironic, that the people that seemed to suffer most—the princes and princesses, lords and ladies, kings and queens—were the ones that were supposed to drip and ooze luxury and grace.

Or perhaps, Callie thought, the kings and queens were not the ones that suffered the most at all, but rather the ones that were lucky enough to have their stories told.

It was a sobering thought.

But then again, Callie had heard the tale of Sam Cortland, and she had to wonder if anyone would have cared about the sellsword son of a whore's death if he had not been loved by a one-day queen.

Hadain rose, taking Callie with her, and Calynn realized that the silence of the early morning had faded, leaving too much room for roaming thoughts.

—

 **EVANGELINE**

Hadrian brought home flowers every time he came back from time at sea. Vases of lilac boughs, of roses, of daisies stained blue.

Hadrian had been pale and rosy-cheeked when Evangeline had first met him, but he'd been windburned and browned when he'd died. "The sea leaves its mark," he'd joked. "But at least I'm able to find my lovely wife lovely flowers."

Some of the flowers were exotic—little pink buds he called cherry blossoms; striped, dotted orange petals called tiger lilies. Evangeline would pluck one flower to press between the pages of a book—just one to save, one to cherish, one to look back on after all the rest had wilted.

She thought about her book of flowers now, watching Cat waddle through the snow in the stark, abandoned sunflower gardens.

Cat plopped down in the snow, giggling. "Mama, look!" she cried, flopping down on her back. "I'm a snow butterfly!"

"I think it's a snow _angel_ ," Evangeline said, not without amusement.

Cat scrunched up her nose. "I like butterflies better."

Evangeline leaned down to kiss the top of Cat's head. "Then butterflies," she said, "it is."

Cat scrambled to her feet, running off to inspect a naked bush, and Evangeline smiled resignedly. Her daughter was a wild thing, a bit too unbridled for Evangeline's comfort. Cat was Hadrian, through-and-through, and Hadrian's reckless streak had earned him a place at the bottom of the sea.

Evangeline made to follow her daughter, but the sound of voices startled her.

The gardens at Orynth were a winding, convoluted beast, and even in midwinter, the hedges were carved of thorns and branches, a maze of hollowed twigs. At present, the stark hedges surrounding the enclosement hid Evangeline and Cat from the footsteps sounding on the path on the other side—two sets.

"Elide," a rough, gravelly voice said—Lorcan.

"Lorcan," Elide replied. "I'm not telling you that I'm leaving. I'm just—"

"Just _what_?" Lorcan demanded. "We've been over this."

"I'm giving you an out," Elide finished.

There was quiet, suddenly, on the other side of the hedge.

"I don't want one," said Lorcan. "I don't know how many gods-damned times—"

"I'm getting older, Lorcan," Elide said, and something in the wobbling tone of her voice made Evangeline go still. "And I know—I don't want to hold you back. I'm mortal."

"I don't _care_ ," Lorcan growled. "I've said it already, and I'll say it again: I want as long as I've got with you. Understand?"

Someone let out a horrible, snagging breath. Evangeline didn't know if it was Lorcan or Elide.

Evangeline took a step back, suddenly feeling filthy, as if she hadn't bathed for weeks. That had been a conversation she was not meant to overhear—an exchange of words meant for no one other than the speaker and the recipient.

She stumbled, turning around, scouting for Cat.

And that was when she saw it.

Evangeline remembered, ages ago, being with Ren Allsbrook in Suria when a haze of winged, fanged creatures had descended from the sky. _Ilken._

There were four of them, but that didn't mean that Evangeline could fight them. Not even close.

She could do nothing as the ilken descended from the sky, savagely fast, and snagged Cat in its claws.

Evangeline screamed.

—

 **DALLIE**

Dallie hadn't wanted to tell her parents.

The snatches of clarity were brief shards of stained-glass, only made possible by Orion at her side.

Three days ago, when she and Orion had landed at the castle, Dallie had said, "Don't tell anyone."

Orion had quirked a brow. "And why not?"

Dallie hugged her arms to her chest. "Because it's crumbly," she said, attempting—and failing—to search for the right words.

"Crumbly?" Orion echoed.

"Unsure," Dallie amended. "You know. Like dirt that crumbles."

Orion had frowned. "Dallie—"

"Please," Dallie said. The word tasted like knives slicing ribbons on her tongue. "Please."

"I don't like it."

"I know," she said. "But thank you anyway."

Dallie had thought that Orion would keep his word. But the night before, he'd found her huddled and shaking in a corner in the aerie, her eyes glowing, scratching sentences into the wooden slats of the walls with bloody, broken fingernails.

It had come suddenly—like a wave that swelled from the bottom instead of curving from the top. Suddenly, Daleka could hear only words—snatches of voices she half-recognized from the future.

Orion had gotten there, and he'd called her name twice before he'd grabbed her wrists, yanking her back to herself.

She'd blinked, tears wet on her face, blood wet on her hands, as Orion had stared at the predictions carved into the wood.

SERVE AS SHADOWS SERVE THE LIGHT

I AM UNWHOLE

BRING HER BACK

SO MUCH DARKNESS FOR SUCH A LOVELY FACE

HAS THE RIVER ALWAYS CALLED TO YOU

MY NAME IS SAM

THE ONLY MISTAKE I MADE WAS LOVING

"Dallie," Orion whispered.

She hadn't responded. She'd been trembling from head to toe, and she'd wrenched her hands from his grip, doubling over and retching.

Orion had pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, waited until she was finished vomiting into the piles of hay, and scooped her up into his arms. He was strong—surprisingly so, as he carried her out of the aerie.

A muscle in his jaw was ticking as she lolled her head back, eyes fluttering shut.

"You're the only one I've never seen," she slurred.

His grip tightened. "Save your strength, Dallie."

"How'd you—" She licked her lips, clearing the lump in her throat. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"You're not that unpredictable," he said, ducking beneath a stone archway, leading her into the castle.

"No one else—ever knows—where to—look."

"Shh," he said. "And it's not a matter of knowing where, darling. It's a matter of knowing _how._ "

She wondered, as she plummeted from consciousness, if many people felt safe in the hands of this boy prince—if people found solace in his sharp claws and white hair, his otherworldly sapphire eyes.

Somehow she doubted that they did.

But for her sake—well, she needed someone with sharp teeth to scare away the demons lurking at night.

When she woke up, she found herself in a cot in the infirmary, her hair brushed and washed, changed into a new shift, her hands bandaged.

There were rather a lot of people in her room, and they were all yelling.

Dallie counted Rowan, Aelin, Manon, Dorian, Lysandra, Aedion, and Orion.

Lysandra was—she was screaming. At Orion.

"You _knew_?" she shouted, shoving Orion back. "You _knew_ that she was conscious—that there was a way to—to talk to her, to figure this out—and you didn't _tell_ us?"

"Get your hands off me," Orion snapped, before Manon and Dorian had a chance to. "And yes. Dallie asked me not to."

"Bullshit," Lysandra said, chest heaving. "You should have told us. Right away."

"I don't break my promises," said Orion, "without good reason. Unlike some people I could mention, I'm not a liar."

Lysandra's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Use your deductive reasoning skills."

"Orion," Manon said sharply.

"Don't censor me," Orion snarled. "Lysandra, for fuck's sake, instead of prancing around and being pissed at _me_ , why don't you focus on your _kid_? Who, by the way, I found bleeding in a corner of the aerie. What the fuck kind of parenting do you endorse?"

Aedion took a threatening step forward, fists balled at his sides, and had to be physically restrained by Aelin.

"Orion, that is _enough_ ," Dorian said.

"No," he said. "No. I'm sick and tired of how you've all been treating her, like she's a pile of broken glass you're going to cut yourself on. She isn't _broken_ ; she's just _different._ Instead of spending all your energy being furious at Syeira, why don't you try being thankful that you got her back at all? She _died._ Of course she's going to be different." He glared at Lysandra and Aedion, chest heaving. "You're never going to get your sweet, rosy-cheeked daughter back. _Get over it._ Start thanking the gods for the daughter that you do have, because this is war, and one day not very far into the future, you might wake up and find yourselves without her—predictions and all. Again."

Silence.

"She's not a monster," said Orion fiercely. "And she's not damaged goods. Fuck you all if you think she is."

"I don't think she's a monster," Lysandra said.

Orion snorted.

"No, you listen to me," she said, jabbing a finger, her eyes bright with tears. "You don't get to come in here and judge me or Aedion for what you know nothing— _nothing_ —about." She swept her wrist across her cheeks. "I am trying my best."

Aedion had gone very, very quiet. Aelin's hands fell from his arms, and he didn't move an inch.

Not until Dallie said, in a voice that cracked and fissured, "Dad?"

Everyone turned to look at her.

Something crumpled in Aedion's face, and then, before she knew what was happening, Aedion swept her up in his arms, crushing her to his chest.

It was uncomfortable—a mess of bones and skin. But Dallie couldn't bring herself to mind.

For the first time, with Orion there in the room, she could touch skin without feeling the bite and hiss of past, present, and future.

Her father smelled like Terrasen: like snow and steel, all the cold, cutting things that somehow came together to form something softer—if not in appearance, than in expression.

And then her father was crying.

It was a strange thing. She'd never seen her father cry before, but he did now: huge, heaving sobs that wracked his whole frame.

She was conscious of people staring as Lysandra knelt at their feet and wrapped her arms around them, her own face wet, but Dallie didn't care.

Because, for the first time since she'd come back to life, she was able to look at her parents and say, "I love you."

—

 **LETA**

They made short work of the continent's length. Leta pushed the winds forward as they flew, soaring over the plains of Fenharrow. As the land changed from dry grass to brown dust, swampland and the shadow of the Bogdano Jungle toward the west, she realized that they'd arrived in Eyllwe.

She and Vaughan still hadn't talked much since they'd dismantled their camp that morning, but the silence was easier, less tense. She'd missed him. Gods, she'd missed him. He seemed to click back into a Vaughan-sized hole in her chest, as if there'd been a mold he was waiting to fill.

Leta didn't know… didn't know what to think about that.

Evening dawned on the horizon, streaking the sky pinks and golds, and Banjali appeared on the horizon.

Her mother had told her fragments about Eyllwe. Aelin had been a handful of times, and she spoke the language—she learned it from a slave in the salt mines, she told Leta, as if Aelin were recounting the weather, or describing a dress.

Leta found solace in remembering that the members of her family were all just as tattered as she was. They shared scars like they shared facial features, their demons swarming in a cloud over their heads.

Aelin had told Leta about Nehemia Ytger, and her sacrifice. Relations between Eyllwe and Terrasen weren't strained, but they were… politely detached. Distance served as a buffer between them.

Banjali was a beautiful city: sandstone and terracotta buildings sprawled over a mess of sand and palm trees, ladders snaking up the side of sun-baked buildings. The palace was a domed monstrosity looming up over the city, ornamented with gold and intricate latticework.

As Leta flew over the city, Vaughan at her side, she caught the scent of citrus, and sun, and sand—the faint whiff of jasmine flowers; lotus blossoms drifting over the wind.

She glanced over at Vaughan. _Follow me._

They'd always been able to communicate nonverbally, a language of nods and head inclines.

Leta flew right to the palace, over the gates, and shifted directly before the front doors in midair, flipping neatly down into a crouch.

Guards jumped, hands reaching for their weapons, as Vaughan did the same beside her, smiling with sharp, pointed teeth.

"Who are you?" one of the guards—a burly, ebony-skinned wall of a man—demanded.

"Leta Lyria Evalin Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius," she said, ticking off her names mentally one-by-one. "Princess of Terrasen. He"—she jerked her head toward the Fae at her side—"is Vaughan Zamil, a former member of Maeve's cadre." She smiled pleasantly. "I've come to speak with King Haneul."

A man appeared at the doors to the palace—slender, perhaps a year or two older than Leta, and devastatingly handsome, with dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, golden irises, and a sparkling smile. "Your Highness," the man said, bowing. "It is an honor. I've heard so much about you."

Beside Leta, Vaughan stiffened.

"Pleased to meet you," Leta said. "Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

"Prince Tarik," he said, walking forward, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a tunic the color of aquamarine stones. "The pleasure is all mine."

 _The heir to the throne of Eyllwe._

Leta sunk into a bow herself. "Your Highness."

Vaughan didn't move. He was too busy sizing Tarik up, as if he could somehow find the knives hidden on his person.

Leta cleared her throat, rising. "Pardon my lackey," she said, earning some small satisfaction at the irritated twitch of Vaughan's lips at the word _lackey._ "He has some difficulty with his manners."

Tarik laughed. "He must be some lackey," he said. "I've heard stories of Maeve's cadre.

Though I suppose you must know more than I, with many of them embedded in your country's government."

"Embedded, perhaps," she said, "is a strong word."

"Wasn't your father her second-in-command?"

"For a time," she said. "But no longer. I say _former_ member for a reason." Her tone had gone sharp, and Tarik noticed.

He inclined his head. "Apologies. I know a little of your… involvements with Maeve."

 _I don't think you do,_ she thought. Out loud, she said, "No need to apologize. I would, however, like to speak with your father. Though"—Leta smiled apologetically—"I believe myself and my lackey find ourselves a bit travel-stained."

"Of course," Tarik said, catching her drift. He snapped his fingers at a passing servant. "Asim, show Her Highness and her companion to a set of guest chambers, please. See to it that they have everything that they need."

Asim bowed his head. "Certainly, Your Highness." He peered at Leta and Vaughan, cringing back a bit at the latter's bared teeth. "If you could just follow me, perhaps…?"

"Certainly." Leta smiled dazzlingly at Tarik. "I hope to see you again during our stay."

"Likewise," Tarik murmured, and she felt his eyes boring holes into her back as Asim led them to their rooms.

—

 **LORCAN**

The second Lorcan heard the scream, he didn't stop to think. He acted.

He swung around the hedges, Elide hot on his heels, as an ilken swooped down and snatched Cat Orabel in its claws. Lorcan swore, hurling a dagger—where it sank into the ilken's throat, dropping Cat fifteen feet in the air, tumbling into a pile of snow.

Evangeline shrieked, clambering through the snow to get to her daughter. Lorcan lunged as one of the ilken dropped onto the snow, unhooking his hatchet from where it was permanently wedged on his back and throwing it through the air.

Lorcan had become consummate at hunting these demons, and the hatchet severed the ilken's throat.

He yanked out another hunting dagger from his belt, slapping it in Elide's hands. "Get back to the castle," he snarled. " _Now."_

"Not a chance."

"Evangeline and Cat need you," he pointed out. "And I need Gavriel. Don't be a martyr, Elide. Do it _now._ "

Elide set her mouth into a thin white line, but ran through the snow as best as she could, Lorcan using a bit of his magic to stabilize her ankle even more than usual. He fashioned an arrow of darkness and sent it plunging for the two ilken still in the sky—it made them both drop, but they were still alive; hulking and fierce.

Elide picked up Cat and ran toward the stone paths, Evangeline behind her, as Lorcan sprinted toward the ilken, yanking up his hatchet and sinking it into another's shoulder. He heard the satisfying _crunch_ of severed bone and muscle, and plunged a knife tucked in his boot into the ilken's throat.

Lorcan was running out of knives—there were only so many weapons that he strapped on his body for a casual walk in the gardens. _Dammit._

But just as two more ilken slammed down, right beside the remaining one, a roar sounded, and a mountain cat burst through the snow, sinking its fangs into one of the ilken's necks.

"About time," Lorcan growled, slamming his hatchet into one of the ilken's backs.

Gavriel snarled in reply, and Lorcan focused on this—the sound of breaking bones, the smell of blood against snow, the low grumble of a mountain cat and hiss of steel, the things that Lorcan knew—as the gardens became a haze of blood and cursing.

He was so wrapped up in the makeshift battle that he almost—almost—didn't see the ilken reach out a claw and plunge it directly into Gavriel's ribcage.

Almost.

—

 **ORION**

Orion stood at his father's side, watching Aedion, Lysandra, Bevyn, and Channon depart the castle in a row of carriages, bound for the river docks.

Aedion and Lysandra had wanted to stay desperately. But someone needed to go to Wendlyn immediately—there could be no more delays, no more hemming and hawing. In a way, Orion thought, Dallie's revelation had made things both harder and easier. Aedion and Lysandra left with the knowledge that their daughter still had a bit of humanity left within her, but they also left her all the same, and in a tumultuous, precarious position.

Dallie had to stay. In order to become human, she had to be where Orion was.

The last of the carriages left Orion's line of sight, and he felt his father turn an assessing, contemplative gaze on him.

"Something to say?" Orion said, acid-tongued.

"You're rather too much like me," his father said, "for my own comfort."

Orion snorted. "We're not that similar."

"Not as I am now," his father allowed. "But as I used to be."

"Lysandra and Aedion needed to hear it. I won't apologize for what I said."

Dorian didn't say anything for a moment. "Don't be so quick to judge Lysandra and Aedion. You don't know the whole story—and you don't know them like I do."

"Bullshit."

"Orion, for once, drop the veneer of teenaged angst and look at me," his father snapped. Orion flicked a bored gaze his father's way. "Listen, and listen closely, because I will only say this once."

"I'm all ears," Orion drawled.

"Losing a child is not something you will ever comprehend until you have felt it yourself," his father said. "It is the penultimate sensation of feeling the carpet ripped out from under your feet—only to discover there is no floor beneath, and the walls and crumbling down, and you cannot tell up from down, or left from right. All you can feel is an all-encompassing sense of _failure_ , because that is your job. Your job, as a parent, is to protect your child. And the second that you realize you will never hear your child laugh again, or call you _Dad_ —" His father cut himself off abruptly, breathing raggedly. "It is the second when there is no reason. It is the moment when you realize there will never be a carpet beneath your feet again, or even a floor, and you may never know left from right, or up from down. Not ever again."

Orion didn't say a word. He wanted to—wanted to bounce back with a sharp retort, but he found himself suddenly devoid of words.

"If Syeira came back," his father said, and Orion could _see_ him struggling with the words—physically _shoving_ them from his lips, as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of poison, "and she was not the same—if she did not respond to the name I have always called her, if she was not the daughter that I raised, that I knew, in a fundamentally, _fundamentally_ altering way, I would need time. Not because I do not love her. Not because I think she is a monster. But because I would need time to accept that the way she is—she would be that way, at least in part, because of me. Because I failed her as a parent. As her father."

"Dad—"

Dorian Havilliard only swept a hand over his face, closing his eyes. "Be careful with what you say, Orion," he said. "Because there are things you do not know—sensations you will never be able to guess at until you experience them yourself. And I hope to gods you never do."

Orion stood there, suddenly feeling as if he had an extra limb—an extra toe or finger or arm or leg.

"And," Dorian said, "be careful that when you make impassioned speeches about someone else, you aren't really talking about yourself." He gave Orion a tired, weary smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We're both guilty of that today."

Dorian made to leave, but paused, putting a hand on his son's shoulder. "I've never thought you were a monster," he said. "Not once. Not ever. You are twice—three times, even—the human being most people claim to be. And I love you—unconditionally, irrevocably, no matter what secret gifts you might turn out to have. You know that, right?"

Orion didn't—couldn't—speak. Not past the lump in his throat.

Something in Dorian's eyes flickered, and he hauled Orion to his chest. It was strange—Orion was almost as tall as his father now, if not as broad.

"You'll make a great king someday," Dorian said, and released his son.

Orion didn't say a word as his father left the room—he just gripped the windowsill, watching as the skies opened and it started, somehow, impossibly, to rain.

—

 **SYEIRA**

When Syeira woke, her mind was her own.

The Valg was… gone.

In its place was blessed, empty silence, and the raised, red tissue of scars too fresh to prod and proke.

Her hands clawed at her neck—to find a different collar. Not one of made of that black stone, but one made of iron; one that quenched the bit of her father's magic roaring to get free in her blood.

Senses seeped in slowly. She felt a warm, moist blanket settle over her skin— _warmth._ Damp humidity, like Rifthold in midsummer, when the stench from the slums' sewers crawled and lingered all the way to the palace.

She heard the caw of birds, but not the songbirds she knew—exotic, feathered beasts, like the fabled parakeets and toucans of the south. The whisper of leaves, sough of branches; buzz of thousands of insects.

Hard, wet stones dug into her back. She felt sticky, sweaty.

She opened her eyes.

And immediately wished she hadn't.

She was in a jungle—a thick webbing of trees arched over her head, knitted together, fingers intertwined. It was overwhelmingly _green_ , from the leaves to the lichen to the moss, interspersed with pops of color: the glint off a reptile's scales, the glow of a panther's eyes, the wings of a butterfly, the petals of a flower; the wings of a bird.

She was sprawled out on the crumbling wrecks of an ancient temple, made of coarse stone and brick. Below her was a Valg army.

There was camp upon camp, tents pinned as far as the eye could see, men striding around with eyes black as granite, their faces pulled into savage grins. They were building something—lugging huge armfuls of stone. Some of them were rebuilding the temple complex, which stretched on for miles, but…

Most of the rebuilding was given to human slaves, with eyes of blue or green or brown, scratched and scarred and hollowed.

Hundreds of them. Hundreds of slaves.

Thousands of Valg. More than… more than Syeira wanted to consider.

"Fuck," she whispered, scrabbling to find purchase, to get to her feet. She had to find a way out—had to, had to—

And then she reached her feet, and the collar around her neck gave a tug as her chain leash grew taut.

"Ah-ah," a sweet, seductive voice said from behind her. "I wouldn't try that. Painful." He made a _tsk-tsk_ sound.

Syeira froze, every hair on her body standing on end.

A hand grabbed her chin in a rough, bruising grip, twisting her toward the speaker.

It was… a man. One that might have once been handsome, with curling, dark hair and ivory skin; a muscled frame and bulging arms, teeth like diamonds.

He smiled at her. "Syeira Sorscha Blackbeak Crochan Havilliard," he said, ticking off each of her names with apparent delight. "A puzzle, to be sure. Not many people can resist the allure of Valg possession—even ones with eyes like those." His hold tightened even further, his fingernails digging into her skin. She fought to keep still, to refrain from flinching back, recoiling.

A different kind of battle. _Fight, fight, fight. For Kas, for Dad, for Mom, for Bev and Callie and Orion. For Kas._

"But," the man continued—and she saw, now, the glitter of basalt eyes gone wholly black—"I am nothing if not pragmatic. We can always try ransom. Or, if not…" He paused. "I can take pleasure in hearing your dear mother and father's screams as I rip you apart in front of them. Or send your body back in pieces. I haven't decided yet."

Syeira jerked out of his grip. " _Bastard,"_ she spat.

The slap came so quickly she almost didn't see it coming. He backhanded her across the face, hard enough for her to choke on a mouthful of blood as her head hit the stones.

A ringing filled her skull, downing, for a moment, his torrent of words.

"—or," the man was saying, grinning fiercely, "perhaps I'll keep this lovely collar, and delight in breaking you the physical way. Top to bottom."

Her stomach revolted violently. "Stay the fuck away from me."

"Oh, I don't think I will," the man said, and grabbed a fistful of her hair, bringing her ear close enough to his mouth that his lips brushed the sensitive cartilage. She recoiled, trying to get away, as the man whispered, "My name is Erawan, you see."

—

 **KASPER**

Kasper woke in a cot with the aching, persistent feeling of something _missing._

He was in the infirmary, tucked into a cot. His head felt cool with sweat, as if he'd only just broken a fever.

Rowan was asleep in a cot at Kasper's bedside, Aelin in Rowan's arms. Both of them looked exhausted, as if they'd had several years stripped off their nearly-immortal lives.

"Mom? Dad?" he croaked. His voice was intelligible, rusty from disuse.

Rowan and Aelin's eyelids fluttered open anyway, both of them jolting when they saw Kasper awake again.

"Oh, thank the gods," Aelin said, and swept him up, just as she had when he was a little boy, and she was bundling him into her arms, as if the mere act of embrace could keep him safe.

Rowan let out a hoarse, shuddering breath, and got a glass of water for Kas from the nightstand. Kasper sucked it down greedily, trying to allay the sense of _missing_ ; _lacking._

"Where's Syeira?" Kasper asked.

—

 **RAIDEN**

For a long time after he finished his story—after he finished telling the tale of Celaena Sardothien, and her merry band of legends, and all that had happened to her and her legends, and Raiden himself—Nox, Emery, and Raiden sat in silence.

It was, surprisingly, Nox that broke it.

"We're going to Erilea," he said. "Pack your bags. We leave tomorrow morning at dawn."

* * *

 **A/N: Preview of next chapter: fields of dead bodies, prophetic dreams, and King Galan Ashryver in Wendlyn. It's fun. ;)**

 **Review thank-you list time!**

 **mandyreilly**

 **cindykxie (orillie sounds like a type of pasta. LETS GO WITH IT)**

 **Fabulous Purple Princess**

 **EmpressofAlderly18**

 **BookBabbles**

 **WheresAelin (Raiden is missing one arm. :/)**

 **Annimiraye**

 **pomxxx (Syeira and Kasper's reuniting is going to be.. ah,, interesting. Several things will come out, including the asp and mate thing ;))**

 **Guest**

 **Bianca di' Angelo**

 **FireBreathingBitchQueen1**

 **isabelas (Elide and Lorcan are having an Existential Crisis ;P)**

 **pho-hp-tog-mi (Omg I'm sorry organizing sounds terrible. I'm a firm believer in organized chaos... like... I haven't lost a school paper in like 3 years but if you open my locker you might still die? Lol. As far as _Tower of Dawn_ goes... hm. Definitely Yrene appearance (has that been legit confirmed yet?), and probably Chaol trying to bargain for forces from Antica (LITERALLY IM CRACKING UP CHAOL AS A DIGNITARY YES), and probably something heartbreaking to do with Chaol's legs, because SJM seems pretty intent on killing us all. I just finished _Lord of Shadows_ (Cassandra Clare's new Shadowhunters book) today and I was like sobbing for hours? And then I read _Caraval_? And im? Still not over _the Foxhole Court_? I'm reading Hemingway now I cant handle more YA fiction that leaves me screeching on the floor, which is all YA fiction)**

 **Dacowluva (NOX AND AELIN REUNION IS GOING TO BE GREAT like seriously though there are some scenes that I just,, am so excited to write,, and that is one of them,,)**


	26. Chapter 25

**A/N: A day late, and I'm still not satisfied with this chapter, but... idk? It's here? (Honestly I am a liar but I'm still kind of impressed that I'm only a day late lol I Need to Whip My Priorities in Shape But What Else is New.) In other news: I'm still not over _The Foxhole Court_ (seriously to anyone looking for books to read this summer read the _All For the Game_ series and come shriek to me about it; that being said be warned: it'll set off like every trigger in the book so if you're sensitive I Do Not Recommend), and I've recently gotten into Skam, and holy cOW it's so good. HIGHLY RECOMMEND, especially to my fellow angsty high school students. **

***clears throat* Now, actual,, relevant,, content,,**

 **I'm still going to try my best to get the next chapter out by Wednesday, but next chapter is more or less when the entire world actually goes to hell (on a whole 'nother level), so... we'll see? If I'm a couple of days late (which is a definite probability), don't be surprised, but I am going to Try.**

 **Thanks again to all reviewers: you guys are the best! *hugs***

 **RECAP: Calynn and Sorrel are en route to the Crochan Kingdom via wyverns. Fenrys was taken by Maeve; Raiden was shot by Cairn, and Nox had to amputate one of Raiden's arms to stop the infection. Nox, Emery, and Raiden are on their way to Erilea to warn the ruling parties there about Maeve and try to get armies to get Fenrys back. Dallie can tell the future after she was resurrected, but for whatever reason, she finds snatches of peace when Orion is around. Syeira recently woke up, free from Valg possession, only to find herself in a Valg camp in the jungle, face-to-face with Erawan himself. Leta and Vaughan are in Eyllwe, investigating reports of Valg activity in the south. They recently met Tarik, the Crown Prince of Eyllwe. Lysandra, Aedion, Bevyn, and Channon are on their way to Wendlyn to bargain for forces from Galan (again). Kasper recently woke up from his comatose state, only to discover that Syeira was gone and possibly dead/possessed by the Valg.**

 **Again, not really satisfied with this, but oh, well. Enjoy! :D**

* * *

CHAPTER 25

 **CALYNN**

Calynn had half-imagined that the Frozen Wastes would be white: the color of snow, the color of winter, the color of wedding lace. But they weren't. The Wastes were gray.

There wasn't snow so much as a gloss of frost slicking over the craggy rock, shiny and gravel-toned. The Wastes were a mess of slate stone, bunching in boulders and mountains, dipping at ditches and valleys and trenches. Bits of the rock were covered in scraggly weeds—clumps of heather and wild grass.

Occasionally, Callie caught a glimpse of a herd of goats, or the odd caribou or turkey vulture, but most of the Wastes were a desolate _lack_. There weren't even the pine forests that characterized Terrasen's northern slopes; just stone and more stone.

 _Make no mistake, Callie. Being born and raised in a place of cold and quiet breaks something fundamental inside of all of us. It's just a matter of what._

Calynn could not help but wonder what had broken inside of Sorrel—what had broken inside her mother.

The Western Wastes were no longer wastes: the curse had ended, and the land was slowly being rehabilitated, turned back to its former, fertile state, crops sown over the decomposing bones of the past. But these Frozen Wastes had always been frozen, as far as Callie knew.

There had been no Brannon to plant and cultivate the Oakwald Forest, no Gavin and Elena to raise cities of triumph. No one had claimed these wild stretches of land.

And for a moment, Calynn wondered what could be done with a place like this. If someone claimed it, could the land be tilled? Could cities claw their way up from the stone? Could quarries and a fur trade compensate for a lack of crops in alliances with other kingdoms?

Three days after they left Rifthold behind, just north of the Ferian Gap, Sorrel came to an abrupt halt in the air, yanking on her wyvern's reins.

Calynn fought to bring Hadain to a stop, pausing at Sorrel's side. She opened her mouth, about to ask a question, before she saw it.

Below was a valley of sorts, carved out between two mountain ranges. The valley was blanketed in thick snow—and dead bodies.

Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. All clad in armor, their skin gone gray and indigo, blood long since dried. Lumpy snowdrifts likely covered more.

"What," Sorrel whispered, "happened here?"

Calynn surveyed the field with clinical detachment. "Death," she answered, and before Sorrel could reply, dove Hadain down, right into the field.

"Callie, _wait_!" Sorrel called, coming after her.

Hadain landed in the snow, and Calynn slid off her back, landing with a _crunch_ in the snow—right on a severed arm.

It was so quiet in the Wastes. There was nothing to make noise or sound; nothing but the whisper of the howling wind, wreaking vengeance for these deaths.

Callie liked the sound of the wind.

She leaned down, picking up the detached arm with her glove, and examined it, blinking twice. "Sorrel," she said. "This armor has a Melisande make."

Sorrel had gone the color of curdled milk. She dismounted her wyvern. "Callie, put that down."

Calynn did, only to reach down and dust off a pile of snow covering a corpse's chest. Icy, burning cold seeped into her fingers. "These are soldiers from Melisande," she said. "All of them."

Sorrel stared at her, mouth opening and closing as Calynn started unstrapping the helmet of one of the soldiers. "Callie, _stop._ "

"Sorrel," Calynn said. "Think for a second. What are soldiers from Melisande doing this far north? And why are thousands of them dead?" She tucked the helmet under her arm. "Either Erawan has something to do with this, or there's another enemy we have to worry about. And we need proof."

Sorrel reached up and fisted a hand in her hair. "You're not bothered by this?"

"By what?"

"The field of dead bodies?"

Calynn surveyed it. "Of course I'm sad," she said. "I mourn them all."

For some reason, the words tasted like a lie in her mouth.

Sorrel seemed to sense it was a lie, because her eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything else. They stood there, at an impasse, facing off.

Calynn turned away. "I'm going to scout the rest of this field," she said, facing the crisp, cold wind as it streaked her cheeks. "You're welcome to stay here. We should be ready to leave in an hour or so."

"Calynn," Sorrel said.

"Death doesn't bother me," Callie said. "It's a fact of life. Some of us die sooner rather than later. It is what it is."

Sorrel shut her mouth, and Callie turned away, walking down the field of cadavers.

She paused at one. A brown-skinned woman, with open eyes gone milky. Her skin was starting to rot, though it'd been preserved by the cold, and her chest had been carved open.

Something stirred deep in Callie's gut. An answering call—though to what, she didn't know.

But it was just a flicker, and after a heartbeat, it was gone.

Callie took the dead woman's dagger, emblazoned with the crest of Melisande, tucked it into her belt, and walked on.

—

 **DALEKA**

Daleka had dreams.

They were not the sort of dreams that Dallie had, the fuzzy whispers of a subconscious. These dreams were raw, and vivid, and some gut instinct told her that they were real.

In this dream, a woman with ebony hair and violet eyes was speaking to a gray-skinned creature with a pair of obsidian ram's horns curling up from its head.

The gray-skinned thing could have almost been human, were it not for its horns and eyes—wholly black and all-consuming. She almost looked like a woman, and some voice in Daleka's head whispered that she was, once, a long time ago, and then her name had been Loralie.

"Let him go," Loralie said.

She and the violet-eyed woman were in a clearing, a camp of pitched tents in the distance. The foliage was foreign; ferns and trees and species of plant that Daleka had never heard of before, let alone seen; grasslands of exoticism that stretched on for miles.

It was evening, sky the shade of a rotted plum, and Daleka was a corporeal form in the bushes, crouched close to the ground; watching.

The violet-eyed woman turned to Loralie, and Daleka realized, with some surprise, that she had the pointed ears and fangs of a Fae. "Why would I do that?"

Loralie lounged against a tree, sharpening her claws with a hunting knife. "What use do you have for him? He has not spoken a word since you took him from the human boy."

The violet-eyed woman curled her lip. "Love," she said, the word so bitter that Daleka recoiled. "He used to be a warrior."

"Love can strengthen," Loralie remarked, brandishing obsidian teeth sharp and filleted as a piranha's. "You should have taken the Westfall boy, too. You could have used him as an incentive for Fenrys to play along. Taking him out of the game was rash."

The Fae snarled. "Raiden Westfall was a thorn in my side," she said. "He was the one that enabled Aelin's escape. I will not make that mistake a second time."

"But," Loralie pointed out, "now you have broken yet another weapon. Daggers can shatter, Maeve, and you have shattered Fenrys. He will not recover from Raiden's death. No one recuperates from that kind of heartbreak and loss."

Daleka sucked in a sharp breath.

"For a monster," Maeve— _Maeve_ —said, lip curling, "you are pathetically human."

But Loralie had turned, and she was not looking at Maeve, nor at their foreign surroundings. She was looking right at Daleka's phantom form, hiding in the grass.

"Ah," she said quietly. "We have an eavesdropper."

Maeve stiffened. "Where?"

But Loralie was prowling forward, closer, eyes narrowed. "It has been an age since I have seen one of you," she said to Daleka. Her smile was sweet: almost nostalgic. "I wonder who brought you back to life, little seer."

"Seer?" Maeve demanded. "Impossible."

"Not impossible," Loralie corrected. "Simply improbable. As all things are." She reached out and grabbed Daleka's hand, and though Daleka recoiled, she felt Loralie press something into her palm.

"Who are you touching?" Maeve insisted. "I can't see anyone."

"I know you cannot," said Loralie. "But I can." Her hand tightened on Daleka's. "And now it is time for you, little oracle, to go."

The scene before her disintegrated into a thousand shattered pieces, and Daleka sat bolt upright in the infirmary, breathing hard.

Within her, Dallie was screaming.

Daleka unfurled her palm.

In it was a single crushed, foreign flower from the fields of far away. The bloody imprints of claws were etched into her skin.

She screamed— _Dallie_ screamed, out loud this time, fighting to take over in that moment of pure, unadulterated fear—and for some reason, her scream sounded like Orion's name.

—

 **RAIDEN**

"Alright," Nox said. "Question number one. What the hell is this thing?"

Nox, Emery, and Raiden stood outside the country cottage, packs slung over their shoulders, staring at the odd, reddish, spotted deer-hybrid creature that had ferried Emery and Raiden to Nox.

Emery winced. "I don't know."

"How did you find it?" Raiden said, walking forward—and almost falling flat on his face. His balance, once finely tuned, had turned upside down. He had difficulty managing a straight line, or walking on any uneven ground.

"I didn't," she said. "It was—do you remember the gray monster riding with Maeve? The one with the horns?" Raiden nodded. "After Maeve rode off, and you were… incapacitated, the monster did something. Called the buck forward. I asked it to do things, to help me, to get to Nox, and it _did_. Like it understood me."

Nox eyed the reindeer-thing suspiciously. It was currently munching on a patch of daisies in the front yard. "I don't trust it."

"It's our best shot at getting to Erilea quickly," she said. "I bet it could take all of us." To be fair, the buck was fairly large; easily twice the size of a normal deer.

The night before, they'd all gathered around the kitchen table, Nox pulling down a map from the wall. "Alright," he said, tapping a spot on the parchment. "Here's where we are."

To Raiden's astonishment, the map had been of Wendlyn. Nox was pointing to a spot near the northern coast, brushing up against the forest that covered the western slopes of the Cambrians.

"Bullshit," Raiden and Emery blurted out in unison.

"Um," Nox said. "No?"

"There's no way," Raiden said. "We were—thousands of miles east of Doranelle. Easily. There's no way that we're in Wendlyn, let alone west of the Cambrians."

"I promise, you are."

In the present, they continued to stare at the deer as it pawed the ground, snacking on flowers. It seemed delighted by the varieties that sprouted in the gardens of Raiden's cottage; it snuffled happily every once in awhile.

"Emery," Raiden said. "It is possible that the—gray thing—charmed the deer? To carry us faster, I mean?"

"I guess," Emery hedged.

"And you said the monster is traveling with Maeve?" Nox said. "That doesn't make sense."

"It's not really its motives that concern me," Raiden said, hobbling forward. "Emery, if this gray thing could charm _us_ to move faster—doesn't that mean that she could charm Maeve's merry band of misfits to travel quicker, too?"

Emery paled. "And you think…"

"When Aelin and Kasper escaped two years ago," Raiden said, "Kasper left Sollemere in ruins. Charred ashes, actually." He chewed on his lower lip.

Nox cursed. "That's a pretty powerful motive for revenge."

"Exactly," Raiden said. "If Maeve is headed west as fast as we are—faster, even—then we might already be too late to warn Erilea."

"There no point in hedging what-ifs," Nox interrupted. "Cross that bridge when we get to it. We'll ride this—whatever this is—to Varese, hitch a trip on a ship back to Erilea, and warn the others. If this thing is as fast as Emery says it is, we should be able to get there by nightfall."

Emery peered up at Nox. "Are you sure you want to come?"

"Don't get second thoughts on me now," Nox said, a corner of his lips tugging wryly.

"No, I mean—" She gestured back at the cottage. "You might never see this place again. That doesn't bother you?"

"No," Nox said quietly. "It doesn't. This was never a permanent solution. It was never home."

Raiden wondered, briefly, if Nox had ever had a home at all. He didn't know the story that hung between Nox and Emery—something about a dead sister, he presumed—and he didn't want to know.

He'd had enough secrets and sins for a lifetime.

 _Oh, the teenage melodrama,_ a voice sang in the back of his head. It sounded suspiciously like Fenrys.

"Come on," Raiden said, voice oddly rough. "Let's go."

—

 **SYEIRA**

Two years ago, Syeira had seen Kasper strip off his shirt—had seen the whip lashes etched into his skin, and wondered what that felt like, rope biting into skin, again and again.

Now she knew.

Erawan had decided that he would not kill her—not yet. He wanted to break her himself.

She was a slave, designated to manual labor: constructing temples and sacred buildings for demons, bleeding and sweating, slipping to her knees fifty-three times a day, an iron collar around her neck.

Occasionally, she had to serve the Valg commanders: refilling their glasses, bearing their lascivious gazes that made her feel as if her skin was crawling with miniature arachnids; forcing herself to remain still as they jeered at her and slapped her ass.

If one of the overseers thought that she was too slow, or inept, or inadequate, they whipped her. Tied her to a wooden post in the square, for the rest of the Valg to watch, and stripped apart her skin.

Syeira refused to scream.

It hurt—holy _fuck_ , it hurt—but she would not give them the satisfaction of breaking her.

When they bound her to the post, she recited their names in her head.

 _Dorian, Manon, Orion, Calynn, Bevyn, Kasper._

All the reasons why. In the moments when she wanted to throw her head back and scream, she remembered the smell of his skin—pepper and rosemary—and the precise angle of his smile. The exact shade of his eyes. The timbre of his voice.

She remembered his back, so covered with scars, and thought, _If it did not break him, I will not let it break me._

Syeira remembered Aelin, and how she, too, had been whipped as a girl—made a slave in the salt mines.

And so she refused to scream.

She lost track of the days. She lived in a ditch at the fringe of the camp with the other women slaves, all buzzing in Eyllwe. She knew a few words from her lessons, but not enough. Not nearly.

Syeira woke at the crack of dawn every day and worked until late into the night. She'd once thought that healing had ruined her noblewoman's hands.

She was wrong. Her hands now were cracked and bleeding, covered in scabs that would likely scar, some of them oozing pus that meant infection. Syeira knew some of the plants in the jungle from her time at the healer's academy in Antica, and she slapped on poultices as best as she could, but there was only so much she could do with limited time, resources, and overwhelming, bone-deep apathy.

Hours blurred. Life dragged.

She went to sleep curled up on the hard ground, pretending she was on a ship drifting in the sea, and Kasper's arms were around her.

One day, the overseers handed her a mop and a bucket of brackish water, shoving her into a line of resolute, stony-faced women, headed down into the temples that had been built beneath the ground.

The temple complex was enormous, and only half of it was above-ground. Most of it splayed beneath her feet, crawling through the loamy soil of the jungle. Syeira had seen Valg commanders and foot soldiers coming to and from the tunnels, and servants hauling vats and jars and baskets of laundry, but she had never been down there herself.

She hadn't wanted to. She'd… had no desire. Not to face something like that.

Now it seemed she would have no choice.

As she descended the stairwell into the tunnels, overseers on either sides of their motley procession of slaves, chains and collars rattling, she could not help but look up at the sun, soaking in its last warm, muggy rays.

She didn't speak as the slaves branched off, led to separate hallways. The air was dank and stale here, walls slick with beads of moisture.

Soon enough, she was alone, save for a single overseer.

"Clean the floor," he said.

Before her was a corridor that stretched on for what seemed like miles, lined with doors. The mop in her hand became leaden.

"I—" she began, but the Valg was already retreating, turning down another hallway.

Were it not for the heavy collar around her neck and the chains bound between her ankles and wrists, she would consider making a run for it.

Syeira swallowed thickly. The weak flames in the torches pinned to the walls sputtered.

She dipped the mop into the bucket. Slopped it onto the floor.

She slipped into a rhythm: pushing the mop across the floor, dampening grime and grit and dust and what looked, horrifyingly, to be bloodstains.

As she worked, as blisters formed on her hands, she imagined what Kas would say if he were here now. _Afraid of a little dirty work?_

"Dorian," she whispered. "Manon. Orion, Callie, Bev. Kasper. Raiden. Dallie, Aedion, Lysandra, Rowan, Aelin, Leta. Elide, Lorcan. Gavriel. Vaughan. Evangeline."

And that was when she heard it. The scream.

Later, Syeira would be thankful for the scream. It gave her a warning—a moment to steel herself as a taloned hand thrust open one of the hallway doors and hurled a girl onto the stones.

The girl shrieked, clawing at the door as it slammed shut. She was bleeding—blood everywhere, crimson staining her hands, her legs, her stomach and cheeks.

The blood was red, stained with bits of black.

" _No!"_ she cried, slamming her hands against the door. " _Give her back! Give her back! Gi—"_

She was cut off, suddenly, by a cough that wracked her whole body.

When it stopped, she had a mist of red on her lips.

Syeira didn't think. She just dropped the pail and ran.

The girl scrambled backwards, looking up at her fearfully, but Syiera put up her hands placatingly.

"I won't hurt you," Syeira said. "I swear it on my life."

The girl pressed herself against the wall.

Syeira tugged at the collar on her neck. "I'm a slave here," she said. "Let me see. You're bleeding. You need help."

"Y-you c-can't h-help m-me," the girl stammered, her teeth chattering. She was a tiny thing, skin and bones, with the honeyed complexion and corded braids of someone from the south. "They—they took her."

"Took who?" Syeira said, kneeling. Inching closer.

The girl's eyes fluttered shut. "I d-didn't know," she whispered. "They did something to me. To my baby."

Something cold and heavy settled in the pit of Syeira's stomach.

"They said that they'd help me," the girl said, mumbling now, half-asleep. "Nobody wanted me anymore. Nobody wants a whore with a baby. They just want the whore part. They took me—said they'd help me. I woke up— _here._ They made me drink things. Said they were making my baby stronger." The girl opened her eyes, reaching out and clutching Syeira's wrists. Her eyes were like lanterns, hazy and gold. "That is not my baby. That is _not my baby._ "

Syeira wanted to throw up. Wanted to vomit all over the newly-polished hallway.

Instead, she shoved the feelings far, far down, just as her mother had taught her, just as she had taught herself, and became cold and unfeeling and detached.

"Are you still bleeding?" Syeira said.

The girl smiled hazily. "Maybe. Sure."

Syeira let out a breath. "I'm going to heal you," she said. It would cost precious strength, but it was the quickest, fastest, most reliable way of dealing with this particular problem. "Alright?"

"Not worth it," the girl slurred.

"Of course you are. Everyone is," said Syeira, and before the girl's eyes had a chance to shut permanently, _pushed._

The girl stiffened, as if she'd been slammed over the head with a saucepan, as the pain seeped into Syeira. The world blurred, made woozy by the girl's temporary blood loss that Syeira absorbed, as her own heritage and gifts replenished and healed.

"Your _eyes_ ," the girl whispered, and Syeira realized that her irises must have seeped to her whites, creating solid orbs of gold.

She didn't know how much longer it was that Syeira finally dropped her hands, slumping back against the wall, a fuzzy taste in her mouth.

"There," Syeira said, voice echoing and faraway. "You'll be alright."

But then a voice came from the doorway. Silky. Velvety-smooth.

"Princess Syeira," Erawan drawled, stepping forward from the mouth of the hallway with his flanked entourage. "What a lovely surprise. You've been keeping secrets from me."

—

 **LETA**

Leta and Vaughan were given a suite of rooms in the western wing of the palace—walls and floors made of sandstone, glossy and cool, patterned with bright colors and stones; sprawling lounges and exquisite rugs; fronds and vases made of stained glass spun thin as expensive china.

Their quarters shared a sitting room and a study, but they each had their own bedroom and bathroom.

They were assigned servants and given the night to refresh themselves; a messenger appeared and informed them that His Majesty the King would speak with them in the morning. Leta smiled, dismissed her maid, and drew a bath herself.

She sat in the tub, soaking in the hot water, washing the grime of the road off her skin. When she was finished, she slipped into a pair of loose cotton pants, a sleeveless shirt, and toweled her hair dry, letting it fall around her shoulders in damp ringlets.

Before she left the bathroom, she peered at herself in the mirror—at the scars on her cheeks, dusting her shoulders; spiraling and curving down her arms. At the Stag of Orynth tattooed on her back, a memory of stars.

She was alone. And in that lonely moment, she allowed herself to be weak.

She pressed her hand to the glass. "I am afraid," she whispered. "Give me strength."

There came no reply.

Leta let her hand drop, wiping her eyes, and left the bathroom, blowing out the candle on the countertop.

She found Vaughan in the sitting room, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers, his own hair damp from the bath.

For a moment, she just stood there, staring. His damp hair fell around his shoulders (it still needed cutting), and the patch of brown hair on his chest was slick, plastered to his skin.

The tip of his curved ears poked through his hair, silver hoops winking.

He turned around and froze. His throat bobbed.

"Hi," he said hoarsely.

She bit back a smile, curling up in the chair across the table from him. There was a bowl of dates in the center, and she took one, sniffing at it. "Hi."

"I think you're supposed to eat those, not smell them."

Leta set the date down. "I'm not hungry."

Vaughan tilted his head back, studying the mosaic pattern of fish on the ceiling.

"What are you thinking?" Leta asked.

He raked a hand through his hair. "A lot of things."

"Such as…?"

"Such as," he said, "I forgot how much I love flying with you."

Her cheeks pinked. "Yeah? What else?"

"I'm remembering that I don't particularly like the south," he said. "I'm from a warm climate, you know. The aroma of fish rotting on a hot day is not a sweet one."

Her nose wrinkled. "I can imagine."

"I'm also," he said, "thinking that I do not particularly care for Tarik."

"What? Why?"

"Call it a gut feeling."

"That's ridiculous," she said. "He was nice."

"He's a fake."

"He's a _courtier_ ," she pointed out. "I'm a fake, too."

"No," Vaughan said. "No. You might act nicer at some times than others, but you're always yourself, Leta. You don't have sixteen different skins hanging in your mental closet."

Something hard settled in her stomach, but she didn't say anything.

 _You're right,_ she thought. _I don't have sixteen different skins. I have thirty-two._

"I should get to sleep," she said, getting to her feet. "We have to meet a king tomorrow, after all."

"Good night, love," Vaughan said, but he wasn't looking at her—he was gazing out the window at the silver spattering of stars.

"Good night," she said quietly, and slipped back inside her room.

Leta had difficulty falling asleep that night. Maybe it was because, with her Fae ears, she could hear Vaughan through the walls, his breaths just as interrupted and awake as hers.

—

The next morning, Leta rose with the sun, splaying out the dresses she'd packed on the bed, running her fingers along the hem of each one.

Impressions were everything, and Aelin had taught Leta that how she dressed, what kind of jewelry and shoes and hat she wore, mattered. It sent a message—what kind of person she was, what kind of person she would be.

For a moment, Leta considered strapping on a corset, dressing in the style of high fashion in the north, but she quickly set that idea aside.

Instead, she donned an ivy-colored dress that grazed the floor, thin and sheer. Corsetless. It cut to the waist in the back, exposing her tattoo.

She pinned her hair up with a single silver clip on top of her head, allowing a few tendrils to curl at her collarbone, and grabbed a handful of silver earrings.

No makeup. No shoes, either.

Her ears and fangs were left for the whole world to see, the sleeves of her dress trailing past her hands like phantom spirits. She was a wild thing.

She did not play by their rules of courtesy and ring-around-the-rosy deportment. Leta played by her own rules.

When she looked in the mirror one last time before she left, sliding a silver ring on her toe, her ankles tinkling with bangles, she smiled.

She tucked knives into the sheaths in her wrists, in her ankles, and slid a misericorde in her hair, the emerald-studded handle winking. Just in case.

Outside her chambers, Vaughan waited in the parlor, munching on a date.

He, too, had taken no pains to hide any inch of his ancient lethality: his hair was held back with a leather cord, and he wore a leather doublet and trousers, laced boots coming up almost to his knees.

A sword was strapped on either side of his hip, each anointed with three daggers apiece, and a bow and arrow hung on his back, polished and gleaming.

Both of them, she thought, were meant for where the world came to an end.

He grinned at her. "Shall we?" he said, extending an arm.

"Let's go meet a king," she said, taking his hand.

—

 **TARIK**

Tarik waited in the throne room, thoughtfully tugging on the cuff of his sleeve.

His father lounged on his throne, his face unreadable. That was nothing new; Tarik had never been able to read his father, much as he might wish he could. The statues in the Great Hall could take pointers from Haneul Ytger.

"Tari?" a small, quiet voice said at his elbow.

He didn't have to turn. Nehe stood beside him, her brow creased faintly. She looked lovely as ever, clad in gold, her hair corded into a dozen miniature braids coming down her back.

She was thirteen, but their father was already planning to marry her off. Not out of malice—Haneul was kind, but practical first. An alliance with the Southern Continent found its way above Nehe's happiness on Haneul's private scale.

Tarik still wasn't sure how his scale was measured. Not yet.

He'd figure it out one day, he was sure.

"What do you think of the princess?" Nehe said.

"Are we talking about you," Tarik said, "or Leta Galathynius?"

Nehe screwed her mouth to one side, unamused.

"Leta, then," Tarik said, lips twitching as he leaned against the wall. Peasants filtered into the throne room, begging his father for new legislature, for clemency; for a dozen more chickens for their coop. "Truth be told, I don't quite know yet."

"Yet?"

"She's difficult to read," said Tarik. "Incredibly so." He tugged harder on his sleeve. "And dangerous."

"I've heard the rumors," said Nehe. "They say she and Kasper Galathynius are the most powerful Fae in Erilea." She frowned. "I saw her entrance, though. If that's the best she can do—"

"Oh, I doubt that very much," Tarik said, thinking back to Leta. What made her dangerous, he thought, was her subduedness. She had the feel of the air just before a storm, reeking of metal, the sky roiling a purple-gray. It was a matter of _when_ the rain began to fall, not _if._ "Her little flip coming into the palace, I think, cost her nothing—the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what she's capable of. I saw Rowan Galathynius at Morath once, and if his children are more powerful than he is—" He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug he didn't feel.

"I'd like to see her, then," said Nehe. "I've heard that she can control silver fire that freezes things to their death. D'you think she'd show us?"

"Maybe if you asked nicely," said Tarik, laughing.

She elbowed him. "It isn't _so_ ridiculous."

"If I were Leta or Kasper Galathynius," Tarik said, "I'd want to keep that power a secret for as long as I could. Better to keep us stewing, wondering what they've got and what they've don't, than to let us know immediately."

Her gaze slid to his. "Clever."

"Isn't it?"

But at that moment, conversation in the expansive, domed throne hall stopped abruptly, words and sound still echoing off the woven tapestries hanging on the gilded alabaster walls. Heads swiveled, as one, to stare.

Tarik stopped.

Leta Galathynius walked into the throne room, and there was nothing about her that looked human.

Silver hair: wild and untamed. Eyes that glowed like spirits of their own, fire dancing in the ring of gold, blue fathomless and cold as the deep. Bare feet that slipped over the mosaics dotting the floor, ears that curved up, studded with silver; a dress that cut down to her waist. A study in stars inked on her back.

There was something—cold, he thought, about her. Remote. Removed. Wild, unbridled.

Behind her prowled Vaughan Zamil, armed to the teeth and grinning, watching Leta closely with almost—protectiveness.

Tarik narrowed his eyes.

Leta halted before the throne, offering Haneul a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Your Majesty," she said, kneeling. This time, Vaughan followed suit.

"Rise," Haneul said. He had stiffened, sizing up a potential threat.

And Tarik understood, then, in a way he had not before:

To make enemies of the royal family of Terrasen was to sign a death writ. To make allies of them was to forge a shield of charmed steel.

Leta straightened with impossible grace. "Your Majesty," she said. "It is an honor."

Haneul stepped down from the throne. "The honor," he said, examining her, "I think, is all mine. I have heard a little of your past, Highness."

To her credit, she didn't so much as flinch. "It is not the past that matters, Majesty," she said, "but what we choose to do in the present."

"Wisely said." Haneul looked at Vaughan. "Who is this?"

Tarik knew he'd told his father who Leta's companion was—but this was the way that Haneul operated. Disarming, attempting to catch his opponent on uneven footing. Tarik did it often himself.

"My name is Vaughan Zamil." The Fae flicked his gaze up from Haneul's feet to the top of his head, clearly unimpressed.

Tarik found himself a bit envious. He'd never had the guts to do something so blatantly disrespectful.

"And who is Vaughan Zamil?" said Haneul.

"A former member of Maeve's cadre," Vaughan said, examining a point on the wall behind Haneul. "Now in the service of Her Highness."

"Her Majesty the Queen of Terrasen, you mean," said Haneul.

"No." Now Vaughan looked right at Haneul, and it made a tragicomic picture. The Fae had at least a foot and a half on the king of Eyllwe, and he seemed wholly unbothered by the crown on Haneul's head. "I meant what I said. I am in the service of Princess Leta, not her mother, not her father; not her brother. I am hers."

Haneul smiled broadly, flashing white teeth. "Is that so?" he said, laughing a bit.

Neither Leta nor Vaughan laughed. Leta's face hadn't so much as flickered.

"Well," Haneul said, looking around at the rest of the room. "Those excepting Her Highness, her guard, and my children, you are dismissed. Those of you that I have mentioned"—he made his way back to his throne as members of his court filtered out, shooting the remaining few curious glances—"it seems we have a few things to discuss."

—

 **LETA**

Leta's heart wasn't working properly.

It tapped a sporadic, uneven beat.

She stood in front of the king of Eyllwe, listening to him talk about the sightings of monsters to the west, and the disappearances that had been plaguing his people; the massacre of villages to the northwest, near the border of Melisande.

"Is it assumptive—preemptive of me, even—to assume these are the doings of Erawan?" said Haneul, knotting his hands behind his back as they examined the maps on the wall. "Perhaps. But I saw Erawan's rise—fought at Morath, even, though I realize you were not there, like my son."

To that, Leta could only reply acridly, "No. I was not. Neither was my brother."

The look in her eyes was enough to make Nehemia Ytger II recoil across the room, shrinking back.

Haneul had introduced his children briefly: _my son and heir, Tarik, and my daughter, Nehemia._ His ever-present smile had grown taut. _Named after my beloved sister. Your mother knew her, I believe._

Leta had bowed her head. _She did. She told me to offer you her sincerest condolences, and to say that Nehemia was one of the true great rulers of this world, and she has mourned her death every day since she died._

That was enough for Haneul to blink quickly several times. He changed the subject abruptly, and Leta felt a tug in her chest—she'd had enough pain from Kasper's unconscious state to imagine the pain of losing a sibling, and it was not a pain she cared to contemplate.

But even through that discussion, through the talks that led to plans of heading off to examine the land to the northwest the next morning, she couldn't stop thinking about what Vaughan had said.

 _I am hers._

And then it was—

—it was his hands pressed flat against her bare skin, spanning her waist, his mouth on hers, her fingers in his hair, grabbing and tugging and _this is safety, this is right, this is_ —

Impossible. It was impossible, now.

She would not bring heartbreak.

And perhaps that was why, when Nehemia II—called "Nehe"—said, "I should like to come with them on this expedition, Father," and Tarik said, "As would I," Leta said, "I would be delighted if both of you would come."

Tarik grinned at her. "I confess," he said, "talk of my father attempting a match between us has been struck enough that I had tried, a bit, to picture you in my head." His smile widened as pink dusted her cheeks—in Terrasen, too, the possibility had been mentioned. "I could not have done you justice now, I see."

"Well," she said. "Perhaps I will have the chance to get to know you better during this witch hunt of ours, Your Highness."

She couldn't see Vaughan's reaction. Not that she cared. Because she didn't.

Haneul observed them carefully, but she saw a flicker of approval in his eyes. A marriage into the Galathynius bloodline would no doubt be advantageous—especially if future heirs caught any of the gifts swimming in her blood.

They departed the throne room with plans for leaving for the northwest the next morning, accompanied by an entourage of fifteen, plus the prince and princess and their personal guards, and Vaughan's silence spoke volumes.

When Leta got back to their suite, she stepped into her room, laying down on her bed and staring at nothing.

Her heart felt like it was breaking, and she closed her eyes, pressing her face into her pillow to muffle her hitching breaths.

 _In, out. In, out. In, out._

—

 **CHANNON**

Channon did not have a face.

Once he did—once, he had a set of features, completely unalterable. _This is my nose, my chin, my eyes, my brow. These are my hands, my feet; my arms. My legs._

And then he'd begun to shift.

On the rare occasion that Channon felt masochistic enough to look in the mirror, he never knew if his was the face he'd been born with. Had his eyes always been this bright—had he somehow unconsciously made his cheekbones higher, his shoulders broader?

Channon was handsome, devastatingly so, but he had no idea if his was a face he'd unconsciously molded himself.

The world, for Channon at least, was made of clay. It could be sculpted and manipulated by the form he wished to take. The ground was not made of stone; it was made of shifting grains of sand and sinkholes, constantly ebbing and giving way beneath his feet.

He stood on the boat, watching the waves below, and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of the sea.

He could understand the ocean, just as Channon could understand and empathize with any liquid. They had no definite shape: they took the shape of their container. Definite volume; definite matter, but no shape.

On the deck below, Bevyn scampered along the rope nets, his cropped white hair blown in the breeze. He was a demon, Channon thought wryly—already the sailors had been grumbling complaints about the youngest prince's behavior. They'd woken up to find their doorknobs locked from the outside, come back to their cabins to find their pillows covered in sticky syrup; taken a drink of ale from the wooden barrel only to find it was brackish seawater, spewing it all over the deck.

Channon couldn't bring himself to resent the little prince. It was nice to know that there was someone left that felt light-hearted enough to play pranks on sailors.

His eyes found his father, poring over a table and discussing something official with a handful of officials on the upper levels of the deck, his mother beside them.

Smiles had come easier from them since Dallie had woken up and allowed herself to be tugged into their embrace, but they were still hard-won.

Channon dug his fingernails into the deck, and only when he heard the sound of splitting wood did he realize his fingers had morphed into deadly-sharp talons, now wedged inches deep.

"Fuck," he said aloud, yanking his talons out.

And just as he did, he heard it.

" _Land!"_ someone shouted from the crow's nest, dangling over the railing precariously. " _Up ahead!"_

Channon shaded his eyes. Quick, to arrive in Wendlyn—they'd been sailing for a week, when the voyage usually took two. But then again, their ship had been streamlined, and a wind-blessed Fae had taken the helm, propelling them across the sea.

The shore stretched out before them, sandblasted and dry, the shore rocky with sandstone and granite. Varese was inland, set on a river like Rifthold, and they'd have to ride for a few days to reach the capital.

For now, a port town stretched before them, growing larger on the horizon by the second.

The buildings had a foreign architecture; all flat roofs and arching windows, roof shingles a curled crimson. The cobblestoned streets were patterned, vines of flowers draped across walls, and the air, even from afar, smelled of spices: sharp, tangy scents that stung the inside of Channon's nose.

So this was the land that had swallowed up Raiden; that Channon's father had been born in. Warm and browned and strong: it had, Channon knew somehow, withstood the test of time against the odds. The Ashryvers had held it upright when it should have crumbled long ago.

The ship reached the dock, swaying as sailors hurled anchors over the side, and Channon watched from the railing, his hands shoved in his pocket. Subdued—unobtrusive. People generally preferred Channon that way, he'd realized. He was an anomaly, something they did not quite understand, and they liked him better in their peripheral vision.

He was content to stay there.

Aedion and Lysandra found their way to the gangplank, where an official in the armor and colors of Wendlyn was waiting, smiling genuinely, his eyes crinkled.

"Welcome," the official said, bowing with a sweep of his cape. "My name is Silas, the mayor of this little town."

Little town, Channon thought, was an understatement. But then Silas probably knew that.

"I am Aedion Ashryver," Channon's father said, returning the bow. "General of Terrasen."

"And I am Lysandra," said Channon's mother, "Lady of Lysander."

Silas raised a brow at the name of Lysandra's territory—but only for a moment. Channon, in that brief second, gave the man a bit of credit. Most people raised more than a brow.

"I am honored to welcome you into our fair city," said Silas, "though I understand it is not to be for long, unfortunately."

"No," Aedion said. "Tomorrow, we must go east to Varese. I have business with His Majesty in the capital."

"Of course," said Silas, though Channon had no doubt he was curious.

Channon yawned, drowning out the rest of the conversation, scouting the people that had come with Silas. There were a handful of guards, most of them helmeted and armored. Nothing interesting there—just the run-of-the-mill lackeys.

But behind Silas, on the edge of the dock, was someone that _did_ warrant notice. A Fae.

He was slim, for a Fae, or perhaps that was just Channon's skewed perception of his father, grandfather, Rowan, Lorcan, and Vaughan. Slim, lean with muscle instead of broad, and laughing, white canines glinting. His skin was browned, his eyes upturned, slanted just a fraction.

He was talking to a few sailors on the dock and laughing, though Channon, for whatever reason, didn't think he was a sailor himself. His hair was cropped close to his ears, silver glinting on his ears and hands, and Channon caught a hint of a tattoo snaking up from his collarbone—

He turned, suddenly, and looked right at Channon. And smiled.

Channon flushed, pink rising to his cheeks, and the Fae cocked his head, sniffing. Surprise flickered in his eyes.

"Channon?" Lysandra said, interrupting Channon's reverie.

Silas did a double-take, reassessing Channon. "This is the shapeshifter boy?"

"That's me," Channon said, stepping up to the gangplank, his hands still in his pockets. His dark hair buffeted around his cheeks—it hadn't been cut in weeks, and he'd forgotten to cut it—and he blew it aside, irritated.

"My, my," said Silas. "I've heard rumors, but I did not know if they were true." He smiled at Lysandra and Channon. "I would love to see one of you shift sometime."

"You know my mother and I," Channon said. "A regular parading troupe."

Lysandra stepped on her son's foot, and Channon's facial expression didn't alter a bit. "Excuse my son, mayor," she said. "He gets a bit sea-sick, and it makes him short-tempered."

"Ah," Silas said, nodding. Never mind the fact that Lysandra was clearly lying through her teeth. "Well. We can escort you to a private set of quarters for the night—I presume you set off tomorrow?"

"That's what my father said," Channon replied.

Aedion's hand closed on Channon's shoulder, squeezing. "Tomorrow, yes. At first light, if possible."

Silas gestured to his guards, who led Aedion, Lysandra, Bevyn, Channon, and their own entourage of security off the boat, over to a set of horses. Aedion's hand dropped from Channon's shoulder as he began to discuss arrangements for horses, saddles, and travel supplies with Silas, and Channon dropped back from the crowd, eyes scouting the throng of sailors clotting the docks.

The Fae boy had hopped up onto a barrel, and he was looking right at Channon, a roguish grin pulling at his thin lips.

He wasn't attractive in the classical way—he had a scar slicing through his eyebrow, a handful on his cheek, and a mostly-healed burn snaking its way up his neck. One of his eyes was bruised and swollen, his cheekbone puffy and swollen.

His knuckles were scabby and bruised, and the knife peeking out of the top of his boot didn't seem like it had done a lick of good.

Even so, for whatever reason, Channon found himself walking over to the Fae, his hands still wedged in his pockets, as his parents played nice with Mayor Silas, talking accommodations and weather; maps and travel ponies.

Channon halted about fifteen feet away from the Fae, leaning against the spindly wooden railing snaking down the dock.

"You've been staring at me," Channon commented.

The Fae rose a brow. "And you've been staring back."

Channon didn't refute his statement; there was no point. He had been. Channon inclined his chin toward the Fae's scarred knuckles. "You should wrap your hands. Bruised knuckles are a bitch to fight with."

"And what," the Fae said, eyes raking over him from top to bottom, from Channon's polished leather boots to his embroidered doublet, "do you know about fighting, shapeshifter?"

Ah. Either the Fae had smelled him, or he'd heard Silas's comment.

"My father _is_ a general," Channon pointed out. "I know a sight more than a scrappy street rat." Though Channon had admittedly never been in a fight himself. He preferred words as his weapons.

The Fae's teeth glinted. "Careful."

"I see your pointy ears, never fear," Channon said, grinning. "Sharp fangs don't scare me."

"They should."

"Alas."

The Fae's lips twitched, and he dismounted the barrel. He was taller than Channon had thought—tall and rangy. Scrappy, indeed. "What's your name, shapeshifter?" the Fae said, tugging on Channon's shirt collar with his index and middle fingers.

"I'm sure you heard my mother."

"I did," the Fae allowed, "but I want to hear it from your mouth."

Channon shrugged. "I don't have a name. You need a face to have a name."

"I see your face," the Fae said, grabbing his chin. His fingers were long and spindly, and Channon's breathing caught. He wasn't quite sure why. "Too pretty, if you ask me. I'd use those skills of yours to make your lips a little less full. You look half a girl."

Channon stiffened—the thoughts were a little too close to his reverie on the boat. He wrenched away. "I don't do that—change my features. Not on purpose."

The Fae studied him for a moment. "Why do you keep your hands in your pockets? Did someone smash your fingers?"

"Why do you have a burn on your neck? Did someone throw a vat of acid in your face?" Channon snapped.

The Fae laughed. "Clever."

Channon breathed out through his nose, reigning in his temper. "Sorry."

"Somehow," the Fae said, "I don't think that's entirely true."

Now it was Channon's turn to laugh. "No. Maybe not."

The Fae paused, examining him for a moment, and stuck his hand out. "My name is Alekos."

"Channon!" Lysandra shouted. "Time to go!"

Channon half-turned, starting to walk backwards. He let Alekos's hand dangle in midair, offering a two-fingered mock-salute instead. "You can call me Channon," he said, and ran away.

When he looked back, midway through mounting his horse, he saw Alekos staring right back at him, hand still extended, waiting for a confirmation that would never come.

—

 **KASPER**

"Say that again," Rowan said quietly.

Kasper froze in his chair, fingers tangled in knotted golden snarls.

They'd all gathered in the infirmary again—Rowan, Aelin, Kasper, Dorian, Manon, and Orion, gathered around Dallie's bed. It was the middle of the night, the sky twilit and spattered with quicksilver, candles flickering mutely on end tables and drawers.

Kasper half-thought someone should carve out a conference room in the healers' quarters, complete with chairs built to house the frames of warrior Fae.

Dallie curled up on the bed. Orion sat beside her, cleaning her palm with a rag and a bowl of water, rubbing ointment on her claw marks and wrapping a bandage around her skin. There was a thin, dangerous set to Orion's mouth, his claws glinting.

"Raiden," Dallie whispered hoarsely, "is dead."

Dorian inhaled sharply, even though Dallie had told them the same exact thing moments ago.

Kasper's skull rung. _Dead, dead, dead._

Two years ago—a lifetime ago—he had carried Raiden to his mother, crumpled in his arms, and watched as Aelin stitched him back together.

Two years ago, Kasper had watched him venture out into the wilderness, untrained and unarmed, without more than a single goodbye.

"Are you sure?" Manon said, speaking for those that could not.

"I had a dream," Dallie said. She didn't meet their eyes; she was staring at the crumpled, wilted flower on the nightstand. "Of Maeve. And a woman—a thing—named Loralie. They were talking—about Raiden, and Fenrys. Something about Fenrys being a shattered dagger, or something, and…" She chewed on her lower lip. "Something about Fenrys being in love with Raiden."

"What?" Aelin said. " _What?"_

Rowan was silent.

Aelin whirled on him within seconds. "Did you—did you _know_ something about this?"

"Fenrys isn't picky," Rowan said heavily. "If you're asking if I knew that, then yes." He rubbed his forehead. "I didn't—I didn't know that Raiden wasn't picky, either."

 _Wasn't._ Past tense.

"It was real," Orion said, speaking up for the first time. They'd come running at his summons—one of the healers had roused him; Dallie had been screaming his name inarticulately for near half an hour. He'd cursed them all— _why didn't you get me sooner, you idiots_ —before running to the infirmary.

They'd found him like that, holding Dallie to his chest as she grabbed his shoulder, sobbing into his skin.

"How do you know?" Dorian snapped, pacing, raking his hands through his hair.

"Because she has claw marks on her skin," Orion retorted. "And a foreign species of flower in her palm. She was _there_. She has a power we don't understand. She's not insane."

"Calm down, Orion," said Manon, rubbing her forehead. "We know she's not insane."

"I won't tell Chaol," said Dorian. "Not without a body. Not a fucking chance."

"You might never get one," said Orion. "He might go the rest of his life believing his son is still out there—"

"And that," said Dorian, "is better than knowing a certain death."

"Is it?" Orion challenged, standing up. "Because I don't think you get to make that call. Chaol and Nesryn deserve the truth. Both of them."

"Orion—"

"You would want to know," said Orion. "If it was me, or Syeira, or Bev or Callie that was dead in a ditch somewhere"—Dorian visibly flinched—"you would want to know."

"No," Manon said. "No, I would not."

People turned to stare at her in surprise.

Her face was immovable as stone. She didn't say another word.

"I wouldn't either," said Rowan, his voice gravelly.

"I would," Aelin said.

Rowan looked at her. His skin was almost gray. "I speak from experience, Aelin," he said. "I would not want to know."

"So do I," Aelin said. For once, her voice lacked her usual fire: it was carefully detached. "You forget. I watched that bitch take away my daughter when I was still bleeding."

Rowan went white, and Dorian fisted a hand in his hair, cursing.

"You can tell the future," Kasper said, staring at Dallie.

She blinked, looking back at him. "I—yes."

Kasper glanced at Orion. "Leave."

"No," Orion growled.

Kasper stood up. He felt wooden—made of something not living. Made of something still.

Days ago, he had woken up in a bed in the infirmary, so weak he could hardly move, and learned that she was gone.

 _We think,_ Rowan said, _that she's been taken by the Valg—that they put a collar around her neck. That they possessed her._

It was funny, Kasper thought. He'd experienced such exquisite pain. He'd been whipped, made to watch his mother scream. He'd been bound and shackled, treated less than a dog.

But he had not known…

Her eyes were like fireflies.

Her skin smelled of soap and herbs, basil and tarragon and hellebore and rosemary and thyme and others he could not name.

A pair of green socks, Kasper thought, and he understood, finally, what she meant.

 _You can look and look and look for something,_ she'd said, _but that doesn't mean you'll find it. Not at all._

He had never gotten the chance to kiss her.

He'd wanted to. He'd wanted to kiss her, and other things, until he dulled her sharp mouth enough that he could look her in the eyes and tell her _everything._

 _I was the snake._

 _You are my mate._

 _I have known, since the first time I saw you—I have known who and what you are. And I have loved you since._

 _I am in love with you._

In the end, it was love that gave him the greatest pain. The bite of the whip slicing his back like a Yulemas ham was nothing compared to watching it do the same to his mother—or listening to his mother's screams as she watched Maeve beat him, as she cried over his bruised, bloodied back.

It was nothing— _nothing_ —compared to hearing that Syeira was gone, and she might never come back, and he was such a worthless piece of _shit_ , and—

He loved her, from her sharp mouth to her soft heart, steel resolve and scars and all, mistakes notwithstanding, because she was something precious, and wholly unique, like a flower that bloomed at night, and—

And he had not been able to save her.

More power than he knew what to do with, and he'd never been able to save the people he loved when it mattered—he was worth shit on the bottom of someone's shoe, if that, and he could feel it, still, that pain, a visceral knife in his stomach, plunging upward.

Kasper didn't understand how they could speak rationally.

He wanted to scream until his vocal cords were ripped from his throat.

All he wanted to do was look for her—no. He wanted to find her.

He _wanted_ to leave—was going to, until he realized that his legs were weak from days of lying comatose, and would not obey his commands, and he was barely able to walk short distances even still, and Chaol was gone, still searching for Syeira.

The moment he got his feet under him— _the moment he did_ —he was getting the fuck out of Rifthold to get her back.

He didn't care if she loved him back, if she hated him. He was going to bring her back.

Which was why he really, honest-to-gods-and-truly, did not give one single fuck about what Orion Crochan-Havilliard had to say.

He shoved Orion aside, and to his delight, Orion stumbled. Kasper stalked forward, slamming his hands down on the wooden dresser at the end of Dallie's bed. "You say you can tell the future," he said, jabbing a finger in her direction. "Where the hell is Syeira? _Where is she?_ "

"I—it doesn't work like that," Dallie said, lower lip trembling.

"The fuck it doesn't," Kasper snarled. "You know where Raiden is? You tell me, right now, where Syeira is. I want a set of fucking _coordinates._ Or, if nothing else, tell me if she's still alive. If she's still _her._ "

"Enough," Orion said, shoving his chest.

Kasper reached out, sharp as a whip, and caught Orion's wrist. He met the witch prince's eyes with unflinching coldness. "I am not afraid of you," he said. "But you should be very, very afraid of me. Do not start a fight with me right here, right now, or you will not walk out alive. Do you understand?"

Orion slitted his eyes. "Is that a threat?"

"No," Kasper said. "It's a promise." He let go of Orion's hand, and someone swore as they saw the burned, mottled skin on Orion's wrist.

Kasper had burned Orion—burned his skin so badly that an acidic scent now scalded the inside of his nose. He hadn't—meant to.

But he couldn't feel sorry for it.

For his part, Orion didn't even look bothered, as if he hadn't felt the pain.

"You—" Manon started, stalking forward, but Kasper halted her with a look.

"I'm sure," he drawled, "that people are afraid of all of you. And I'm sure that to some, you're very intimidating. But I don't particularly give a damn about your shiny teeth or your shiny claws, because before you can get within a foot of me, I will burn you to a crisp where you stand, so I suggest employing some of your _legendary_ common sense and staying the hell away."

Silence.

Kasper pivoted back to face Dallie, who was clutching a pillow, white as snow. "Now. Orion, kindly vacate the premises. Dallie, tell me where she is."

"It doesn't _work_ that way," Dallie said, quavering. "I told you. I don't get to choose what I see."

"Try." He narrowed his eyes. "Try, for once in your life, being _useful_."

"What is this, an interrogation?" Orion said, stepping in front of Kasper, effectively blocking Dallie from his view. "She gave you her answer. It's a no. Accept it and move on. You're not the only one with a cross strapped to your back, so get over your melodrama."

Kasper rose a single hand, flooded with veins of lightning. "Get. Out. _Now._ "

" _Kasper,"_ Aelin said, shoving forward. "That is _enough._ She cannot tell the future at will. _Enough._ "

He turned a cold, impassive gaze on Aelin. She had fire in her own hand.

Dorian and Manon were staring at him, fury slashing their cheeks.

Rowan was just—looking. Like he'd never seen Kasper in his life before.

"This is not the son I raised," Aelin said. "This is _not the son I raised._ "

"You're right," Kasper said coldly, dropping his hand, sparks winking out. "This is the son Maeve created when she forced my head between her legs."

The wall broke.

And all the glass shattered in the room.

Kasper realized a second later that it was because Rowan had recoiled so violently that he had crashed into the wall behind him—crumbling it.

His control on wind had slipped, and now the glass from the windows, the pitcher of water, the cups and glasses and vials, lay in shards of glass, poultices and water dampening stone, leaking and ebbing.

Aelin let out a whimper.

It was such a terrible noise, that sound of heartbreak: the echo the ground made as it slid and tilted beneath her feet.

Kasper shoved himself out of the room, ears ringing, before he could hear another word—see another person's gods-damned face.

He was done.

He was done, for today, with truths and revelations of love. They cut too deep.

—

 **RAIDEN**

The stag was a blur as it bolted through the plains of Wendlyn, dust kicked up beneath its heels, grasses whipping at Raiden's shins.

He was strapped to the front of the buck—literally _strapped_ ; a rope bound his waist to Emery's. He wasn't balanced enough to ride without help. Not with only one arm.

It made an awkward picture, Raiden in front, Emery behind him; Nox trying desperately not to fall off the stag's ass. But the stag was fast— _shit_ , it was fast, blurring the surrounding landscape.

Nox was right. By nightfall, they found themselves in Varese.

It was dark out, and the three of them—plus the stag—stood on a hillcrest, looking at the sea of lights and buildings below, the scent of smoke and sounds of laughter vaguely winding their way up the hill.

"We'll camp here tonight," Nox said. "Tomorrow, we make our way inland."

Raiden didn't help Nox and Emery make the camp, not that he would be much use if he had. Instead, he sat on a hill and listened to the music and the voices, the clatter of hoofbeats in the streets.

He wondered, looking up at those stars—at the Stag of Orynth, ever-present—what he would find in Varese.

Or perhaps what would find _him._

* * *

 **A/N: Tentative next chapter update: Wednesday (?)**

 **REVIEW THANK-YOU LIST TIME! :D**

 **cindykxie**

 **Guest (Glad you caught the thing with Sam. ;) All the words Dallie wrote on the wall in the barn will eventually be dialogue. It's gonna be fun)**

 **Fabulous Purple Princess**

 **fairymaster**

 **EmpressofAlderly18 (You'll definitely eventually get more Manorian parentage as this beast of a fic progresses. As far as Orion/Dallie goes... their relationship is a sloooooooow progression, considering Dallie is still smol, but it'll eventually... move forward ;D)**

 **AELINASHG**

 **pomxxx**

 **Guest**

 **BookBabbles (Yes, the lock thing has DEFINITELY not been resolved. You guys are all going to hate me when this ends lol *hides*)**

 **Bianca di' Angelo1 (YES OSCAR WILDE IS MY BITCH. As far as the reunion for Nox and Aelin goes... that one's a while coming, I'm not going to lie, but you'll get lots of Nox like "holy shit this is Aedion Ashryver her cousin and wait what the fuCK wHO the hELL is rOWAN and kASPER she has kIDS" pretty soon if that's any consolation ;))**

 **Stars-Guard (I'm actually going to underline and italicize this one because I'm sure a bunch of people are in the same boat.**

 _ **THEIR CURRENT AGES**_

 _ **Kasper, Leta, and Raiden: 17**_

 _ **Syeira: 16**_

 _ **Orion: 15**_

 _ **Dallie: 11 (Like I said it's a friendship right now bc she's smol lol)**_

 _ **Channon: 14**_

 _ **Bevyn: 9**_

 _ **Let me know if I'm missing anyone that you still want to know!)**_

 **pjo-hp-tog-mi (OHMYGOD I KNOW LoS I WASNT PREPARED I WASNT READY I DIDNT KNOW IM STILL NOT OK LIKE,, I THINK YA AUTHORS THINK I'M ACTUALLY MORE MENTALLY STABLE THAN I ACTUALLY AM,, BC IM NOT,, I MEAN LETS BE REAL. BUT ANYWAY. I'm so glad and legit touched that your sister is reading this (!). And as far as Tarik goes... he is... interested... not gonna lie... sorry... (I'm a caps lock addict too it's ok)**

 **Annimiraye (AWWW)**

 **keep . the . hope (asdfghjkl (p.s. it got weird about letting me write your url sry))**

 **jmdaily13 (x2 AHH) (Ah, yes. The note-sending. ;D)**

 **ShiroisKing1304**

 **19sweetgirl96 (Hmm... I might separate this after I'm done? That's a good idea. So glad you liked it! :D)**

 **Tschüss, Freunde! (I'm trying to learn German this summer and failing miserably lol) HOPEFULLY I GET THE NEXT CHAPTER UP BY WEDNESDAY!**


	27. Chapter 26

**A/N: I _actually made it by Wednesday oh my g o d_**

 **It's not as long as my usual chapters, but I'm... halfway satisfied with it? Idk. I'm never really satisfied with anything I write, but this was the chapter where everything Starts to Go to Hell, so I did my best, lol. :D**

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed: you guys are incredible. *hugs* Additional thanks to the people who let me know that Lysandra's territory is actually called Carravere (ack! Thank you guys so much for real)!**

 **RECAP: Calynn and Sorrel are en route to the Crochan Kingdom; Calynn reacted hella weird to a field of dead bodies.**

 **Leta and Vaughan are heading to Eyllwe; Leta is forming a relationship with Tarik, heir to the throne of Eyllwe, much to Vaughan's dismay. Leta, Vaughan, Tarik, and Nehe are on their way to investigate the swamps of Eyllwe.**

 **Aedion, Lysandra, Bevyn, and Channon are on their way to Varese; Channon recently met Alekos, a mysterious Fae, in a port town.**

 **Erawan caught Syeira healing a young girl.**

 **Kasper revealed Maeve's abuse to his parents, Dorian, Manon, Dallie, and Orion.**

 **Enjoy! (Let me know if I did a halfway good job with the action scenes lol bc I Struggle)**

* * *

CHAPTER 26

 **CALYNN**

Something had shifted within Calynn.

Inside her travel pack was an assortment of objects: a dagger, a shield, a helmet; an arm guard. All were inscribed with the crest of Melisande; all were taken off a dead person's body.

She had never been scared of ghost stories as a child—she had never flinched away from dead things. To her, the dead were benign. It was the living that held the capacity of malignance.

She and Sorrel didn't talk much as they journeyed through the Frozen Wastes. They made camp in the caves set into the rock-flecked hills, and their camps were silent. Seldom did they risk making a fire—there were old beasts, Sorrel explained, that roamed the Wastes, and to rouse them would be to sign a death writ.

Callie never glimpsed these old beasts, but she saw their remnants; the pieces of themselves they had unwittingly left behind. Footprints, a trampled path snaking through a thicket; the dead body of a mountain lion splayed over the ground, its ribcage ripped out, lying some fifteen feet away.

Strangely enough, she didn't feel disturbed by these ominous, ever-present reminders of their treacherous path. Instead, she felt a kind of peace: _Oh,_ she thought, _so this is how it is._

The truth had never bothered Calynn, no matter how harsh and cruel; perturbing and terrifying. The truth was the truth.

They made good time as they flew; the wyverns allowed them to cover two or three times the ground of travelers on foot. But, as Sorrel reminded Calynn, she would never cross the Frozen Wastes on foot, not as she was.

"Leta Galathynius," Sorrel said, "or Kasper—they might cross this ground. Same for Rowan or Aelin, or Dorian, perhaps, though he's not quite a warrior."

"If my mother was with you," said Callie, "would you try?"

Sorrel pursed her lips, turning over the question in her mind and mouth. "I have no doubt that we would make it out alive were your mother to accompany us," she said, "but it's a moot point. Manon would never cross these plains on foot. Above all, she derides stupidity."

About a week after they first set off from Rifthold, they reached the easternmost tip of the Jungle of Morla: a dense, cold place made of trees that had seen the birth of Brannon and Galan and Elena, and the birth of the races of witches, Crochan and Ironteeth, light and dark, healing and killing by turns.

"We'll stop here," said Sorrel. "We'll go into the forest, but not too deep—a mile or two at most."

"Why?" Calynn asked, as both Hadain and Sorrel's bull sliced a downward arc through the air.

"The jungle provides good cover," Sorrel answered. "The monsters inside are fearsome creatures, though, make no mistake, and the deeper you go, the worse they get. We'll head a mile or two inside, and nothing more. Fending off monkeys with sharp teeth is preferable to fending off whatever prying eyes might seek to hurt us."

Hadain and the bull thumped to the ground with a muffled _whumpf,_ and Calynn slid off Hadain's back. She'd stopped listening to Sorrel mid-conversation—her eyes had been caught by something else.

"Sorrel," Callie said quietly.

"What?" Sorrel wasn't looking in her direction—she was unstrapping her saddlebag, pulling out rolls and materials for their camp. "What is it?"

On one of the trees lining the fringe of the forest, a branch jutted out—and on that branch, run through as if the wood were a lance, was a dead ilken, dripping black blood into the snow.

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._

Her breath frosted in the air, snow crunching beneath her feet as she walked forward. Behind her, she could dimly hear Sorrel cursing, coming closer, but Sorrel's voice grew distorted, as if she were speaking through a fishbowl.

 _What happened to you?_ Calynn said, or perhaps thought. She was close enough to the ilken that she could brush her fingers along its ankle.

Dead things were oddly beautiful. Callie had always thought so: a wilted flower had a melancholy loveliness that a bloomed one could not hope to match, and blood could be the richest color imaginable, like liquid rubies.

Calynn reached up to touch the ilken's wing, and something within her swelled.

Later, she would remember it in pieces.

It was like a wave, that answer—a wave she had seen on the shores of Adarlan once as a child, building and building and building and _crashing,_ finally, _slamming_ down into the beach, pounding the shores like fists beating on a pair of wooden doors.

When the wave within her crashed, the result was instantaneous. Her vision went black as ink, swirling into clouds of mist on the air.

And the world went silent

And the forest stilled

And the next thing Calynn knew, she was lying on the ground, and Sorrel was screaming, and it occurred to her that the sky had never been so blue.

—

 **LETA**

The heat in the south was thick and pervasive; it reminded Leta of a fur settling over her shoulders. A damp fur, some rabbit skin or deer's hide, drenched in water that smelled like sweat.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She hated horses, hated riding; hated the cramps in her ass and thighs and back when she dismounted. Usually, when she traveled, she chose to do so in her condor form—wings were a luxury, and they brought an overwhelming sense of peace.

The troupe covering ground in Eyllwe was enormous, made up of Leta, Vaughan, Tarik, Nehe, and at least fifteen guards. Privately, Leta thought it a bit excessive, but remembered belatedly that Tarik and Nehe were not warriors.

The royal family of Terrasen was made up of soldiers and generals, born with a sword and a knife in their hand. Terrasen had always been known for its weapon-skilled rulers, from Brannon to Rhoe.

But the other countries of Erilea were not. Even Adarlan was no exception: Manon might have been a legendary force, but Dorian, for all his power, was not a warrior. Nor were Syeira, or Calynn, for all her fencing prowess.

The Ytgers were known for diplomacy. Leta had already seen Tarik talk circles around some of the courtiers, and Nehe had done the same. Haneul might not know how to wield a sword, but he could outmaneuver and best most emissaries. He missed nothing.

It was a pity, Leta thought. Tarik, Nehe, and Haneul seemed to be under the impression that they could poke and prod weaknesses into her mental armor rather than her physical one.

But she had been a witch's bitch for fourteen years, and she had seen more fearsome creatures than Tarik Ytger.

They rode together near the front of the procession, Vaughan riding beside them. He didn't say as much, but she knew that he, too, chafed at the horses—both of them wished to fly, to soar.

Leta wiped sweat off her brow as Tarik smiled at her. It was midday, the sun beating down on the browned plains, the horses' hooves kicking up a cloud of dust that had stained her leggings beige. "You're not used to the warm climate, I take it?" Tarik said.

"Not exactly," she said. "Terrasen is a sight colder than this."

"You should see our summers," said Tarik. "They put winter to shame."

She laughed. "I shudder to think of it."

"I am curious," said Tarik. "How does our climate compare to the Cambrians?"

Two years ago, Leta would have sucked in a sharp breath—would have been overwhelmed by memories of iron claws, a bloated body nailed to a wooden board; hands shoving her headfirst down a well.

Now, she only smiled, forcing the memories deep, deep, down.

That was the number one rule of diplomacy: never let the other side perceive a weakness, ally or enemy.

"The Cambrians are quite cold as well," she said. "Especially with the altitude. Though the grasslands and coastal regions of Wendlyn are warm."

"How do you find our heat?" Tarik said, patting his horse's neck. "Horrid, I imagine?"

"Not horrid," she said carefully, smiling. "Just—different."

Tarik grinned at her. He _was_ awfully handsome, she thought—sparkling white teeth and skin like melted dark chocolate. "I'd like to experience the cold of Terrasen one day myself."

"Perhaps start with one of our summers," Leta teased. "Better to ease than shove, or you'll be too scarred to contemplate return."

Tarik laughed. "Tell me about Terrasen. I've only ever heard stories."

She bit her lip. "I haven't known it very long."

"Is it not your home?"

"Of course it is," she said. "In more ways that one." Leta brushed her thumb over the saddle's pommel. "Terrasen is a cold place—and wild. Filled with lakes that are frozen over half the year long, during fall and winter and the beginning of spring. Orynth is… snow and frost-shingled roofs, and ice that slicks through streets and gutters. The whole world sparkles. Glitters."

"Oh?"

"In the summer," she continued, "the snow melts, and grass grows—but not quite the sort of grass in Adarlan, bright green. Or the bleached grass here. It's blue, and bunches of clovers grow in clump—and sunflowers bloom, too. Wild sunflowers. I'd never seen one before coming to Terrasen, and—" She swallowed. "Kas—my brother—he used to pick bunches for me. I'd come to my room at night and find vases of wild sunflowers everywhere. My room swarmed with bumblebees."

Tarik shuddered. "How horrifying."

"Why?"

"They sting," said Tarik, as if it should be obvious.

"Not if you don't bother them," Vaughan said. They were the first words he'd spoken all day—he'd been quiet lately.

Leta couldn't help it. She turned to look at him, and ignored the flop in her stomach.

He was stubbled, and there were lines pulling at the corners of his mouth. Something about his whole body was taut.

"Not always," Tarik countered.

Vaughan leveled a stoic stare at him, unimpressed. "Maybe you should be more careful, little prince," he said, "about how you treat the bumblebees. They don't sting without reason."

Tarik laughed. "Fine, fine. I concede the point." He dimpled, looking at Leta. "He's quite relentless."

She didn't respond. She didn't quite trust her voice.

"Look, there," Nehe said, cantering up beside them. She had her hand over her eyes, shading her face. "A village near the marshes."

"These are where the reports were from?" Leta said, inspecting the swampland in the distance critically.

"We've arrived," Tarik said, smiling brilliantly. "Let's go interrogate some poor townspeople, and figure out what hell Erawan has unleashed."

—

 **VAUGHAN**

Vaughan poked a stick at the fire, grimacing into the flames.

Night had fallen, the camp rumbling faintly around him. Tents had been pitched, fires coaxed to life. Vaughan—to his dismay—found himself positioned at a circle with Leta and Tarik. Thirteen-year-old Nehe had found herself a spot at one of the soldiers' campfires, ogling the muscle.

It might have made Vaughan smile, but he didn't much feel like smiling now.

Leta and Tarik shared a log, their hips pressed together—flush from shoulder to waist, skin meeting skin. The fire threw their faces into stark contrast against the night sky, silver contrasting with ebony, light and dark, shadows and cloud mist.

"I'm sure," Tarik said, "that you must have a host of suitors after your hand."

Vaughan swallowed, hard.

"Some," said Leta.

"Are you under pressure from your parents to marry?"

The golden chips in Leta's eyes grew hard as amber. "Of course not," she said. "My mother and father allow me to find love in my own time—on my terms. No one else's."

Tarik's brows lifted. "How… unorthodox."

"I didn't get the luxury of growing up at court," she said. "Most of my choices were stripped away from me before I had the chance to make them. So I think it fitting, as a matter of fact, that I get to decide this for myself."

"I'm sorry," Tarik said. "I didn't mean—"

Leta rose a hand, pressing it to her forehead. "I was overly harsh," she said. "I—" Her hands curled into fists. "I do not like the idea of selling anyone like chattel. It sits poorly with me."

Tarik cleared his throat, looking away. "I wish my father felt the same way."

"How so?"

"My mother died birthing Nehe," said Tarik. "I don't know if things would have been different if she were still here. But—" He paused, tugging on his lower lip. "My father is a good king."

"So is mine," she replied.

"My father is cold," Tarik continued. "He's campaigning to marry Nehe to a prince from Antica, to settle our alliance with the Southern Continent. She's—thirteen. I don't—" He raked a hand through his hair, and smiled at her wryly, at a loss for footing.

"She's easy to talk to, isn't she?" said Vaughan.

Both of them turned to look at him, blinking, and something twisted in Vaughan's stomach.

"I—yes," said Tarik. "Rather. I don't quite know what it is."

"She's trustworthy," said Vaughan. "Completely. There is no one else in this world I would trust with my life."

For a split second—a whisper of a hairsbreadth—something like horrible, devastating pain flitted across her face.

But in that split second, someone screamed.

Leta and Vaughan were on their feet immediately, Vaughan slinging his bow over his shoulder, Leta lunging for her sword, Vaughan tossing a dagger to Tarik, who dodged it as it landed three feet away.

"What—" Tarik began, still sitting on the log.

But Vaughan interrupted with a torrent of curses, and Leta just stared, white as milk.

They'd made camp in the marshes, near a tumbling river. It flowed black in the moonlight.

From the river rushes crept— _creatures._

Black scales. Fangs long as index fingers. Flat snouts.

That was all Vaughan had time to see before fifteen ilken landed, as one—as a trained, elite group—directly into the middle of the camp.

Nehe shrieked—it had been her the first time, Vaughan realized, letting loose a flurry of arrows. The world blurred around him, and then—

It was a dance, this game. It was a waltz, the placement of this foot there, this foot here, slashing and cutting, the _thwack_ of arrows hitting flesh, the strident whistle of steel through the air, the spray of blood over the grass.

It was a dance, and there was no music, save for the sounds of the fighting and the dying, and for the first time since Vaughan had been found in the Pits—no, since Leta had handed him that cloak in the bowels of the castle in Orynth, and told him to go—he had found steady footing.

Sooner or later, he ran out of arrows, and he realized that the ilken weren't slowing—there were more of them. Ilken, and creatures creeping from the river, from the marshes, from the trees; old, ancient beasts summoned by some power.

He spared a second—just a second—to look at Leta.

She had taken half the river into the air, and it swirled above her head. Lashes of water curled out like a whip, slashing into ilken and slamming into the monsters of the marshes.

She'd given her sword to Tarik, who was swinging it wildly. He'd clearly never held a sword before in his life, and he was jabbing it like it was a toothpick, almost cutting off his own foot.

Around him, guards shouted and groaned—five of the original fifteen were still on their feet. And more were still coming.

 _Nehe._

" _Leta!"_ Vaughan called, wiping blood off his mouth, his forehead, his cheeks.

" _What?"_ she shouted.

"We need to get Tarik and Nehe out of here!" Vaughan yelled. "Fuck—get off me, you gods-damned aberration of nature—they can't fight, Leta! We need to go!"

"And how the hell do you suggest we do that?" She slid in-between the legs of an ilken, jabbing a knife directly up its crotch, and rolled up to her feet, blasting away three ilken with a wave of water.

"Your fire!"

Leta shoved her hand out of her hair, and somehow, across the chaos of the battle, their eyes met.

 _I'll freeze everything. It's too uncontrolled._

 _We'll get on the other side of you._

Her nostrils flared. "Get Nehe, and I'll see what I can do," she shouted, just as she slammed her elbow into the ilken's head.

But at that moment, there was a leathery flap of wings—and a wail.

" _Help!"_ Nehe cried, voice hitching mid-sob as an ilken dragged her away from the camp. "Somebody _help me_!"

Vaughan swore. She was on the other end of the camp—instead of trying to make her way toward Leta, Vaughan, and her brother, she'd tried to run into the wild.

He tossed his bow away, launching over ilken, hacking and slashing. But all but three soldiers were now dead, two of those living soldiers bleeding badly, and the crowd of ilken was thickening, and there wasn't much time—

If he still had an arrow, he could shoot the ilken that was taking her away, but he didn't—not an arrow, and he'd thrown all his knives, and all he had was his sword—

He cursed fluently under his breath and dug deep inside him for the well of power, for the ground rumbling beneath their feet.

He could crack open the earth, could send a boulder hurtling the ilken's way, but he wasn't fast enough, and to hurt the ilken was to kill Nehe—

And then, all at once, it was too late.

The ilken took Nehe's head in its clawed, malformed hands, and twisted.

 _Crack._

She crumpled to the ground. Her neck was broken.

And then it was not Nehe that was screaming, but Tarik, and—

And all the soldiers were dead, and—

" _Leta!"_ Vaughan shouted. " _I'm shifting! Use your fire!"_

There was a flash of light as arms became wings and hands became talons, and another silvery, blinding light as Leta unleashed her silver flame.

He'd forgotten. Forgotten how—

It was so bright that he was blinded, spinning wildly in the air.

When his vision cleared at last, the world was quiet.

He shifted in midair, landing in a crouch in the—snow.

The clearing had been completely frozen over, frost slicking over the river rushes. Iy statuettes of the ilken and demons from the swamp were everywhere, frozen mid-flight, mid-step, eyes still open.

Vaughan's breath clouded on the air.

Leta was standing alone, in the middle of their extinguished campfire.

And Tarik kneeled on the other side of the camp, weeping over his sister's dead body.

—

 **CHANNON**

Channon didn't know where he was.

He stirred in his bed, blinking drowsily, dappled in early-morning sunlight. But this was not _his_ bed, nor _his_ pillows—that was not _his_ dresser pushed against the far wall. This was not _his_ room at all.

 _Wendlyn. Varese._

Right.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, mussing his hair. He'd arrived in Varese with his mother and father late the night before, and they'd been shown to their rooms, told that they'd meet with Galan in the morning.

Channon peered out the window, blinking owlishly. It was barely dawn—the world was still dark, the buildings silhouetted against the night sky.

But then, he hadn't slept well lately.

He groaned, dragging himself out of bed and rifling through his travel pack until he found a pair of trousers and a wrinkled shirt, tugging on both and shucking on a pair of boots. He didn't pause to look in the mirror as he stepped over to the balcony, wrapping his hands around the railing.

In a swift, sure movement, Channon flung himself out the window.

A moment later, he was a sparrow, flitting through the streets of Varese. He didn't want to stay a sparrow—that morning, he was rather keen on remaining himself, or what passed for it—but he did want to distance himself from the castle before he shifted back.

Varese was rather lovely, he thought, shifting in a side alleyway, brushing down his shirt. Stucco buildings, that same curled, crimson roof shingles, the whole city overlooking the glimmering river.

He straightened out his sleeves, frowning, when a voice from the mouth of the alleyway said, "I don't think that'll really make a difference. Your shirt is a gods-awful mess."

Channon jumped, swearing, and saw Alekos— _Alekos_ —leaning against the wall, eating an apple and grinning.

"What the hell?" said Channon. "Did you— _follow_ me?"

Alekos shrugged. He wore the same clothes as a few days ago, though the bruise on his cheek had faded somewhat. "I had business in Varese, as it turns out," he said. "It just so happens that my journey coincided with yours."

Channon narrowed his eyes. "Why didn't I see you on the road, then?"

"Because I'm a Fae," said Alekos, as if it should be obvious. "I have an animal form."

"And what is it?" Channon demanded.

Alekos put a finger to his lips. "Shh," he said. "It's a _secret._ And pretty as you are, little shape-shifter, I have no interest in divulging mine just yet."

Channon glared, shoving past Alekos into the street. "You followed me out of the castle, then," he said. "Or—or _something._ Varese is a big place. We didn't just coincidentally meet up."

"I caught your scent," Alekos said, rolling his eyes and tossing the apple core into the alleyway. Channon heard a _thump_ and a muffled _meow._ "And I was curious. You made quite the impression back at the coast."

"Fuck off," Channon said.

"How rude."

"I don't have time for this," he said, storming down the street. "Find somebody else to stalk."

"I'm not _stalking_ you," Alekos said, jogging to catch up. "Honestly. Are you always this dramatic?"

"I have to get back to the castle," Channon said, taking a sharp left turn.

"Yes, about that. Why did you leave in the first place? I hear Galan's bedrooms are rather cozy, all in all."

"It's a _secret_ ," Channon mocked, taking a right.

The lane they turned onto smelled of fresh baking bread and flowers. It had rained recently, and petals were strewn over the stones, flush and leaking onto the gravel. A baker wheeled his cart into place, setting out displays of muffins, rolls, and biscuits. The air was crisp, cool, singing his skin.

"Ooh," said Alekos. "Someone grows a spine."

Channon whirled. "What do you want?" he demanded. "I'm rude and paranoid for a reason, you know. I'm sure you know who I am—"

"How arrogant."

"—and I'm sure you realize that I have my reasons for thinking odd Fae are generally pricks out to cut off my balls and sell them on the black market," Channon finished. "So please— _please_ —either tell me what you want, attack me if you're going to attack me, or leave me the hell alone."

Alekos rose his brows. "You don't have many friends, do you?"

Channon glowered.

"Relax. I was just kidding." Alekos heaved himself up onto a ledge, his legs swinging. He grinned, teeth flashing in the sunlight. "I don't _want_ anything from you, Channon. I'm in Varese because I'm a smuggler. I take wine and opium and sell them—in Wendlyn, in Doranelle, in the countries to the east, and Erilea, too. I'd be concerned about you snitching on me, but by the time you found a guard to rat me out to, I'd be gone."

Somehow, Channon didn't doubt it. Alekos had that look: cunning and conniving, like a fox.

"I followed your scent because it's not every day you see a shapeshifter," Alekos said. "Even when you travel as far and wide as me. Call it curiosity."

"Killed the cat, you know."

"Trite."

"But true," Channon countered.

Alekos smiled. "Perhaps. But then, I've never expected to live long."

"Aren't Fae supposed to live for a thousand years?"

"So I've been told," said Alekos. "But I'm not quite a Fae. Not in the ways that matter, anyway."

Channon rose a single brow. "Oh?"

"I don't have a lick of magic," Alekos said loftily. "Other than my animal form, that is. I was kicked out of Doranelle when I was—oh, six or seven. Before Maeve fled the city, at any rate. I'm twenty-one now, and suffice it to say I haven't been back."

"You're awfully loose-tongued."

"I don't mind my tragic past," Alekos said with a shrug. "And I don't mind telling people I'm a smuggler. I'm a fast runner, and I enjoy the look on their face. Though you—" He narrowed his eyes. "You didn't even flinch."

"I've seen men die of worse things than opium," said Channon. "If they want to smoke themselves to death, that's their business, not mine."

"I don't sample my own product."

"I didn't ask."

"But you were wondering."

Channon laughed—an edged, rough sound. "You're awfully self-assured."

"That I am," said Alekos, just as a group of people rounded the corner.

Channon had never believed in fate. What kind of fate endorsed the kind of killing he'd seen on the battlefield at Morath? What kind of fate allowed his little sister to be strung up like a Christmas wreath? What kind of fate took innocent people and _wrecked them_ , so thoroughly that inhaling and exhaling became near-impossible?

But at that moment—for just a second—he believed.

There were three people walking down the street. Two he did not recognize: a tall man in his thirties or early forties with a crop of black hair, gray eyes, and sloping cheekbones, and a girl with a forgettable face; dishwater hair, murky eyes, and round cheeks.

And the other—

He was different. Taller, more muscled. His hair curled around his neck, and his face no longer held any shadow of youth—rather, it was marked with suffering and grief. Something in his eyes _ached_ so viciously that Channon couldn't meet his gaze.

One of his arms was gone. Just… _gone._

" _Raiden?"_ Channon whispered.

—

 **SYEIRA**

Syeira thought she knew terror.

She was wrong.

This was terror: Erawan's hand fisted in her hair, dragging her through the tunnels as she dragged her fingernails along the floor, grappling for footing, as he deposited her in a long, narrow room.

Syeira crumpled into herself, heaving. Erawan had taken her here after he'd caught her healing the girl—wrenched her through the hallways as she kicked and bit and thrashed, slapping her so hard that she lost hearing for a moment.

She didn't know what had happened to the girl, or her baby. Syeira didn't want… didn't want to think about it.

This room was deep, deep below the earth, rank with dampness and bottled air. It was narrow, and long—on each side were cots. And on each cot was a wounded Valg.

There were ilken, and other beasts, and possessed humans. Healers scurried around, lugging buckets of black blood that smelled of rancid milk. Syeira tasted bitter bile in the back of her throat, and turned away, eyes burning.

"Heal them," said Erawan.

" _No,"_ Syeira hissed. She did not meet his eye.

He grabbed her chin, bringing her face close to his. " _Heal them."_

"I will not heal your monsters," she spat, fighting to get free of his grasp.

He dropped her to the floor, kicking her so savagely in the ribs that something broke inside of her.

She screamed, unable to help it, even as the healing powers in her blood stitched marrow and bone back together.

"Heal them," Erawan said coldly, as three more Valg came in behind her. To her horror, they carried the girl from the corridor with them, strung between their arms like a popcorn garland. "Or I will kill her."

Syeira couldn't help it. She doubled over, hurling onto the floor.

Before she was even finished, Erawan took her by the collar of her shift. Fabric ripped, exposing her side, and she clutched at the fabric, trying—pathetically—to keep herself covered.

Erawan stopped her at the side of a fallen soldier. The guard was half-clothed, his eyes wholly black as they stared unseeingly up at the ceiling, his breaths rattling and raspy.

" _Heal him,"_ Erawan said, bending down to speak in her ear, his breath hot against her skin, " _or I will kill the girl, and cut up your body for your bastard of a father and bitch of a mother to cry over."_

Syeira closed her eyes, a tear seeping down her cheek, scalding a path through the dried blood and dirt and muck.

He backhanded her, and her temple collided with the metal rungs of the cot. A Valg came up beside him, a knife to the girl's throat. "Do it now, Syeira. I am fast approaching the end of my patience. I know you can."

"P-please," the girl whispered, eyes swimming with tears. "Don't let them. I don't want to die. _Please._ "

Something snapped inside of her.

And it was not a rib, or a bone, or a muscle. It could not be healed by her miraculous veins.

This was something inside her soul—something fundamental, and crucial.

There was nothing to make it whole once more. Perhaps it would never be whole again.

Her body shook, and she placed her hands flat on the Valg's stomach. The man beneath her twitched.

"Forgive me," Syeira whispered, tears seeping down her cheeks. "Forgive me for my sins, Lumas, god of light; Lani, goddess of dreams; Deanna, goddess of the hunt; Anneith, goddess of the wise; Mala, the Fire-Bringer; Temis, goddess of wild things. F—" Her breath caught, and suddenly she was sobbing, shaking uncontrollably as Erawan grabbed her hair, almost ripping it out of her skull, as her head laced with white-hot pain. "F-forg-give m-me, Silba, g-goddess of h-healing, for—" Syeira retched, forcing bile down her throat. "For this injustice I now c-commit."

And then all she knew was pain.

She took the Valg's hurt away—brought it into her own bloodstream.

And Syeira had refused to scream under the bite of the whip, but she screamed now.

It burned the inside of her veins—scalded her skin from the inside out. It was an acid, eating away at her body, her heart, her chest, and she _had not known pain before this moment,_ because it was tainting her irrevocably—as long as she lived, she would never cleanse herself of this blood, not entirely, because it was _part of her now_ —

Someone was screaming Kasper's name.

She thought it might be her.

When she was finished, she slumped to the ground, vomiting up black blood all over the stones.

The Valg blinked, rising up on his elbows. "W-what happened?" he croaked, but Erawan had taken Syeira's wrist, dragging her across the floor to another Valg's cot.

"Again," he said.

So she did it again.

And again.

And again.

—

When she was finished, Erawan killed the girl anyway.

—

 **AEDION**

Aedion woke to a thundering knock on his door.

Lysandra stirred beside him, her hair knotted and snarled, and yawned. "Whoosit?"

"Someone about to get slammed into a wall," Aedion grumbled, forcing himself up and yanking on a pair of trousers. He stormed over to the door, throwing it open. " _What?"_

He froze.

Five people stood outside the door. Two of them Aedion knew.

The other three consisted of a lean, dangerous-looking Fae; a man that bore a remarkable resemblance to Elide Lochan, and a girl with a bland, nondescript face. Beside them stood Channon. And beside Channon…

"Hello, Aedion," Raiden Westfall said.

—

Ten minutes later, they sat in the sitting room in Aedion and Lysandra's chambers.

The man—Nox—leaned against the windowsill, munching on an apricot, while Channon slumped in a plush armchair in the corner. The girl, Emery, stared wide-eyed at the luxury dripping from the walls, oozing over the floors; slicking over the tabletops, from the woven rug to the ostentatious chandelier.

Channon had something about meeting up with the Fae— _Alekos_ —later, which had made Aedion slit his eyes, but that was a tale for another time.

Raiden sat in a chair across the table from Aedion and Lysandra.

The last time Aedion Ashryver had seen Raiden Westfall, he'd been a gangly teenager, raising hell to flip off his father.

This was not that boy.

This Raiden was almost six feet tall, with shoulder-length russet hair. This Raiden had the corded muscle of a warrior, the chiseled bone structure of his mother, and the mouth of someone that had not raised hell but fallen headfirst into it.

This Raiden had a missing arm, and something devastating swam in the depths of his eyes, a sort of bone-crushing grief that Aedion knew all too well. This Raiden was both more and less self-assured.

This Raiden, Aedion thought, was somehow very much like Chaol.

"I assume," said Aedion, "that you have a story to tell."

Raiden didn't smile. "Yes."

"Aelin told us where you went," Lysandra said. "What you set out to do with Fenrys." Raiden recoiled at the name, and Aedion filed it away for later information. "Your father was devastated."

Raiden laughed. It was a hollow, empty sound. "Bullshit."

"He was," Aedion said. "I've never seen him like that before, and I've known Chaol for a long, long time."

Raiden didn't answer. He was looking out the window.

No one said a word. It was dead-silent, save for the faint chirping of the winter sparrows outside their window.

"Fen and I found Maeve," said Raiden. "We looked for her for two years. We never intended to attack her—all we wanted to do was find her, so that Fen could send a message to Rowan, to let him and Aelin know where she is."

"What happened?" Lysandra asked quietly.

"We were thousands of miles east of here," Raiden said. "In a little village. I asked Emery—she lived in the village—to lead us to the forest where I thought Maeve might be. I needed someone that knew the area." His face was completely blank, his voice devoid of emotion.

 _Disassociation,_ Aedion thought, and something deep within him tugged.

"Maeve found us, not the other way around," Raiden said listessly. "Cairn shot me. The next thing I knew, Emery had brought me to her brother's house, I was missing an arm, and Fen—" His breath hitched. "Fenrys was gone."

"There was a gray-skinned woman," Emery said, shooting an anxious look at Raiden. "Or—creature. Thing. I don't know. I ran when I saw Maeve and the rest of the Fae coming, and—I saw Raiden fall to the ground. The gray-skinned thing _did_ something, said something, and this buck came riding out of the forest. I stitched Raiden up the best I could, and put him on the deer's back. It… understood me, somehow. It took us to Nox in days."

"I lived just west of the Cambrians," said Nox. "It was enchanted. I don't know how."

Aedion swept a hand over his features. "I—"

"There's more," Raiden said. "Aedion, I think Maeve was moving just as fast as we were. She was heading west, as far as I can figure. Aelin and Kasper burned her, badly. She'll want revenge."

The blood drained from Lysandra's face, and Channon straightened. "You think she's going to attack?"

"I think it's a definite possibility," said Raiden. "And that we should all be preparing for war."

"We were already preparing," said Aedion. At the crease of Raiden's brow, Aedion elaborated, "Erawan is rising again."

Raiden went still. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," said Aedion. "We are."

"We need to attack Maeve," said Raiden. "We can't—"

"Erawan is the first priority," Aedion interrupted. "That's why we're here in the first place."

"I need to get Fenrys back," Raiden said.

Lysandra and Aedion exchanged glances.

"Raiden," Lysandra began.

" _No."_ Raiden lurched to his feet, almost falling, clearly unbalanced. "You don't understand. I _need to get him back._ "

"Raiden, calm down," Aedion said.

"No," Rai said. "No." He stumbled backwards, and fell to the ground, toppling over. Lysandra got out of her chair, but Raiden scrabbled back, pressed against the wall. "Fuck you. Just— _fuck you. Get him back."_

"Raiden," Aedion started, alarmed.

But before he could continue, someone burst into their rooms.

"Urgent essage from His Majesty the King," the courtier stammered.

"What is it?" Aedion snapped.

The courtier wet his lips. "The southern coast of Wendlyn is under attack."

—

 **AELIN**

That morning, Orion summoned them all to the infirmary.

They assembled: Aelin, Rowan, Dorian, Manon, and Orion. Kasper did not come.

Aelin could not think of Kasper, because then something inside of her was breaking.

Dallie had her hands fisted in her coverlet, bathed in early-morning sunshine, Orion sitting in a chair at her side. She looked up at all of them, her eyes like miniature pearls in her still-girlish face.

"The princess of Eyllwe is dead," she said. "I just thought you should know."

* * *

 **A/N: The Wheels Are Coming Off**

 **REVIEW THANK-YOU LIST TIME!**

 **BookBabbles**

 **Anonymous (Deanna is going to show up at the VERY end, and her connection with Leta will end up having prevalence then. I'm not sure if Callie's personality was inspired by anything in particular, other than the concept of... I look and act hella sweet but Man Do I Have a Dark Side)**

 **Dacowluva**

 **pomxxx (Idk... hm... Kyeira? Lol)**

 **Bianca di'Angelo1 (YES MY SON MICHELANGELO THE TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLE jk lol. Quote in return: _The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther._ -Sylvia Plath, _The Bell Jar_ ) (Kind of depressing sry lol I love that quote tho)**

 **mandyreilly**

 **Guest**

 **pjo-hp-tog-mi (x2 AHHHH) (Honestly, the best thing about writing next-gen fanfics is that you get to make SO MANY PARALLELS and it's legit so much fun omg. And yes, Syeira's eyes are... well... that'll end up being cleared up For Sure in a little bit. :D As far as the girl and the experiments on the Valg go, that will DEF have more relevance soon.)**

 **Guest (Tysm for letting me know about Caraverre!)**

 **Next update (hopefully) Sunday! :D**


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